S. G. & E. L. ELBERT
LOOKING TOWARD SUNSET
From Sources Old and New, Original
and Selected.
By L. MARIA CHILD
"When the Sun is setting, cool fall its gleams upon the earth, and
the shadows lengthen; but they all point toward the Morning."
Jean Paul Richter.
" I am fully convinced that the Soul is indestructible, and that its
activity will continue through eternity. It is like the Sun,
which, to our eyes, seems to set in night ; but it has
in reality only gone to diffuse its light
elsewhere." — Goethe.
BOSTON:
TICKNOR AND FIELDS
1865.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1864, by
L. MARIA CHILD,
in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts.
SECOND EDITION
University Press:
Welch, Bigelow, and Company,
Cambridge.
TO
MY DEAR AND HONORED FRIENDS,
Miss LUCY OSGOOD
AND
Miss HENRIETTA SARGENT,
This Vohtme
IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED,
IN TOKEN OF GRATITUDE FOR THEIR EXAMPLE,
WHICH CONFERS BEAUTY AND DIGNITY ON DECLINING YEARS,
BY ACTIVE USEFULNESS AND KINDLY SYMPATHY
WITH THE HUMAN RACE.
Digitized by the Internet Archive
in 201-2 with funding from
Boston Library Consortium Member Libraries
http://archive.org/details/lookingtowardsunOOchil
PREFACE.
OCCASIONALLY meet people who
say to me, " I had many a pleasant
£ hour, in my childhood, reading your
Juvenile Miscellany ; and now I am enjoying
it over again, with my own little folks."
Such remarks remind me that I have been a
long time in the world ; but if a few acknowl-
edge me as the household friend of two genera-
tions, it is a pleasant assurance that I have not
lived altogether in vain.
When I was myself near the fairy-land of
childhood, I used my pen for the pleasure of
children ; and now that I am travelling down
the hill I was then ascending, I would fain give
some words of consolation and cheer to my
companions on the way. If the rays of my
morning have helped to germinate seeds that
ripened into flowers and fruit, I am grateful to
vi PREFACE.
Him, from whom all light and warmth proceeds.
And now I reverently ask His blessing on this
attempt to imitate, in my humble way, the set-
ting rays of that great luminary, which throws
cheerful gleams into so many lonely old homes,
which kindles golden fires on trees whose foliage
is falling, and lights up the silvered heads on
which it rests with a glory that reminds one of
immortal crowns.
L. MARIA CHILD.
CONTENTS.
Pagb
The Friends L. M. Child . . i
The Good Old Grandmother . Anonymous ... 37
The Consolations of Age . . Zschokke .... 39
The Old Man Dreams . . . . O. W. Holmes . . 44
A Russian Lady 46
The Old Man's Song .... Anonymous ... 51
The Twenty-seventh of March M . C. Bryant . . 52
A Christmas Story for Grand-
father Charles Dickens . 53
John Anderson, my Jo . . . . Robert Burns . . 60
Old Folks at Home . . . . L. M. Child . . 61
Everlasting Youth Edmund If. Sears . 62
Life Mrs. Barbauld . . 68
The Mysterious Pilgrimage . . L. M. Child . . 69
The Happiest Time Eliza Cook ... 81
Ode of Anacreon 84
Cicero's Essay on Old Age 85
The Fountain W. Wordsworth . 98
A Poet's Blessing Uhland . . . . 101
Bernard Palissy 102
Old Age Coming Elizabeth Hamilton 123
Unmarried Women . . . . . L. M. Child, . . 127
viii CONTENTS.
The Old Maid's Prayer . . . Mrs Tighe ... 144
Grandfather's Reverie . . . Theodore Parker . 146
The Old Couple Anonymous .. . . 149
A Story of St. Mark's Eve . . Thomas Hood . . 152
What the Old Woman said . Anonymous ... 161
The Spring Journey .... Heber 163
Moral Hints Z. M. Child . . . 164
The Boys O. W. Holmes . . 184
Ode of Anacreon 185
Mysteriousness of Life . . . Mountford . . . 186
The Grandmother's Apology . Alfred Tennyson . 189
The Ancient Man J. P. Richter . . 193
Milton's Hymn of Patience . Elizabeth L. Howell 210
Letter from an Old Woman . Z. M. Child . . 212
Bright Days in Winter . . . John G. Whittier . 223
The Canary Bird John Sterling . . 224
Old Bachelors Z. M. Child . . 225
Taking it Easy G. H. Clark . . 238
Old Aunty . Anonymous . . . 241
Richard and Kate Robert Bloomjield . 250
LUDOVICO CORNARO 256
Robin and Jeannie Dora Greenwell. . 271
A Good Old Age Mountford . . . 273
My Psalm John G. Whittier . 276
John Henry von Dannecker 279
The Kitten and Falling Leaves W. Wordsworth . 290
Dr. Doddridge's Dream 292
The Old Psalm-Tune .... Harriet B. Stowe . 297
The Lost Books of Livy 300
To One who wished me Sixteen
Years Old Alice Cary . . . 322
CONTENTS.
IX
Growing Old
Equinoctial
Epitaph on the Unmated
A Beautiful Thought
At Anchor
November
Meditations on a Birthday Eve
The Grandmother of Slaves .
Auld Lang Syne. . . .
Old Folks at Home . .
Old Uncle Tommy . . .
Sitting in the Sun . . .
Aunt Kindly
Crossing Over
A Love Affair at Cranford .
To My Wlfe
The Evergreen of our Feelings
Our Secret Drawer . . f .
The Golden Wedding ....
The Worn Wedding Ring . .
Hints about Health ....
The Invalid's Prayer ....
The Old Pastor and his Son .
Rest at Evening
Dinah Muloch . . 324
Mrs.A.D. T. Whitney 334
E. S. . . .
Convers Francis
Anonymous .
H. W. Beecker
John Pierfiont
H. J. .
Robert Burns
L. M. Child .
M. S. . . .
Anonymous .
Theodore Parker
Uhland . .
Mrs. Gaskell
Anonymous .
J. P. Richter
Anonymous .
F. A. Bremer
W. C. Bennett
L. M. Child .
Wesley . . .
J. P. Richter
Adelaide A. Procter
335
336
339
34i
343
346
362
363
364
377
379
383
385
408
410
414
416
424
427
440
441
454
Looking toward Sunset.
FROM
SOURCES OLD, NEW, ORIGINAL,
AND SELECTED.
THE FRIENDS.
By L. M. CHILD.
" By some especial care
Her temper had been framed, as if to make
A being, who, by adding love to peace,
Might live on earth a life of happiness."
Wordsworth.
N the interior of Maine two girls grew
to womanhood in houses so near that
they could nod and smile to each other
while they were making the beds in
the morning, and chat through the open fence
that separated their gardens when they went to
pick currants for the tea-table. Both were daugh-
ters of farmers ; but Harriet Brown's father had
2 THE FRIENDS.
money in the bank, while Jane White's father
was struggling hard to pay off a mortgage. Jane
was not a beauty, but her fresh, healthy counte-
nance was pleasant to look upon. Her large blue
eyes had a very innocent expression, and there was
always in them the suggestion of a smile, as if they
sung the first note of a merry song for the lips to
follow. Harriet was the belle of the county ; with
rosy cheeks, a well-shaped mouth, and black eyes,
that were very bright, without being luminous from
within. A close observer of physiognomy could
easily determine which of the girls had most of
heart and soul. But they were both favorites in
the village, and the young men thought it was
a pretty sight to see them together. In fact, they
were rarely seen apart. Their leisure moments,
on bright winter days, were spent in snow-balling
each other across the garden-fence ; and they kept
up the sport hilariously long after their hands were
numb and red with cold. In the long evenings,
they made wagers which would soonest finish a
pair of socks ; and merry were the little crowings
over the vanquished party. In spring, they hunt-
ed anemones and violets together. In autumn,
they filled their aprons with brilliant-colored leaves
to decorate the mantel-piece ; stopping ever and
anon to twine the prettiest specimens in each
other's hair. They both sat in the singing-seats
at meeting. Harriet's shrill voice was always
heard above Jane's, but it was defective in mod-
THE FRIENDS. 3
ulation, while music flowed through the warb-
ling voice of her companion. They often bought
dresses alike, with the agreement that, when the
sleeves were worn, the two skirts should be used
to make a new dress for the one who first needed
it ; and shrewd observers remarked that Harriet
usually had the benefit of such bargains. Jane
waited assiduously upon her mother, while Har-
riet's mother waited upon her. One seemed to
have come into the world to be ministered unto,
and the other to minister. Harriet was prim in
company, and some called her rather proud; but
Jane was deemed imprudent, because whatever
she said or did bubbled out of her heart. Their
friendship was not founded on any harmonious
accord of character ; few friendships are. They
were born next door to each other, and no other
girls of their own age happened to be near neigh-
bors. The youthful heart runs over so perpetu-
ally, that it needs another into which to pour its
ever-flowing stream. Impelled by this necessity,
they often shared each other's sleeping apartments,
and talked late into the night. They could not have
told, the next day, what they had talked about.
Their conversation was a continuous movement
of hilarious nothings, with a running accompani-
ment of laughter. It was like the froth of whip-
syllabub, of which the rustic took a spoonful into
his mouth, and finding it gone without leaving
a taste behind, he searched the carpet for it. The
4 THE FRIENDS.
girls, however, never looked after the silly bubbles
of their bubbling syllables. Harriet thought Jane
excessively funny, and such an appreciative audi-
ence was stimulus sufficient to keep her friend's
tongue in motion.
" O Hatty, the moon 's up, and it 's as light as
a cork ! " exclaimed Jane, springing out of bed in
the summer's night, and looking out of the win-
dow.
" What a droll creature you are ! " replied Hat-
ty ; and they laughed more heartily than they
would have done over one of Dr. Holmes's wit-
tiest sayings.
When merriment subsided into a more serious
mood, each gave her opinion whether Harry Blake,
the young lawyer, or Frank May, the young store-
keeper, had the handsomest eyes. Jane said,
there was a report that the young lawyer was
engaged to somebody before he came to their vil-
lage ; but Harriet said she did n't believe it, be-
cause he pressed her hand when they came home
from the County Ball, and he whispered some-
thing, too ; but she did n't know whether it would
be fair to tell of it. Then came the entreaty, " Do
tell"; and she told. And with various similar
confidings, they at last fell asleep.
Thus life flowed on, like a sunny, babbling brook,
with these girls of sixteen summers. Fond as they
were of recreation, they were capable, in the New
England sense of the term, and accomplished a
THE FRIENDS. 5
great deal of work. It was generally agreed that
Harriet made the best butter and Jane the best
bread that the village produced. Thrifty fathers said
to their sons, that whoever obtained one of those
girls for a wife would be a lucky fellow. Harriet
refused several offers, and the rejected beaux
revenged themselves by saying, she was fishing
for the lawyer, in hopes of being the wife of
a judge, or a member of Congress. There was
less gossip about Jane's love affairs. Nobody was
surprised when the banns were published between
her and Frank May. She had always maintained
that his eyes were handsomer than the lawyer's.
It was easy enough for anybody to read her heart.
Soon after Jane's marriage with the young store-
keeper Harriet went to visit an uncle in New York.
There she attracted the attention of a prosperous
merchant, nearly as old as her father, and came
home to busy herself with preparations for a wed-
ding. Jane expressed surprise, in view of certain
confidences with regard to the young lawyer ; but
Harriet replied : " Mr. Gray is a very good sort
of man, and really seems to be very much in love
with me. And you know, Jenny, it must be a
long time before Harry Blake can earn enough
to support a wife handsomely."
A few weeks afterward, they had their parting
interview. They kissed and shed tears, and ex-
changed lockets with braids of hair. Jane's voice
was choked, as she said : " O Hatty, it seems so
6 THE FRIENDS.
hard that we should be separated ! I thought to
be sure we should always be neighbors."
And Harriet wiped her eyes, and tried to an-
swer cheerfully : " You must come and see me,
dear Jenny. It is n't such a great way to New
York, after all."
The next day Jane attended the wedding in her
own simple bridal dress of white muslin ; and the
last she saw of Harriet was the waving of her
white handkerchief from a genteel carriage, drawn
by two shining black horses. It was the first link
that had been broken in the chain of her quiet
life ; and the separation of these first links startles
the youthful mind with a sort of painful surprise,
such as an infant feels waking from sleep to be
frightened by a strange face bending over its cra-
dle. She said to her husband : u I did n't feel at
all as I always imagined I should feel at Hatty's
wedding. It was so unexpected to have her go
off with that stranger ! But I suppose she is the
best judge of what is for her own happiness."
The void left by this separation was soon filled
by new pleasures and duties. A little boy and
girl came. Then her husband was seized with
a disease of the spine, which totally unfitted him
for business. Jane had acquired considerable skill
in mantua-making, which now proved a valuable
assistance in the support of her family. The neigh-
boring farmers said, " Young Mrs. May has a hard
row to hoe." But her life was a mingled cup,
THE FRIENDS. 7
■which she had no wish to exchange for any other.
Care and fatigue were sweetened by the tenderness
and patience of her household mate, and bright-
ened by the gambols of children, who clung to her
with confiding love. When people expressed sym-
pathy with her hard lot, she answered, cheerfully :
" I am happier than I was when I was a girl. It
is a happiness that I feel deeper down in my
heart." This feeling was expressed in her face
also. The innocent blue eyes became motherly
and thoughtful in their tenderness, but still a
smile lay sleeping there. Her husband said she
was handsomer than when he first loved her ; and
so all thought who appreciated beauty of expres-
sion above fairness of skin.
During the first year of her residence in New
York, Harriet wrote every few weeks ; but the
intervals between her letters lengthened, and the
apology was the necessity of giving dinner-parties,
making calls, and attending to mantua-makers.
To Jane, who was constantly working to nurse
and support her dear ones, they seemed like letters
in a foreign language, of which we can study out
the meaning, but in which it is impossible for us to
think. She felt herself more really separated from
the friend of her girlhood than she could have been
by visible mountains. They were not only living
in different worlds, but the ways of each world did
not interest the other. The correspondence finally
ceased altogether, and years passed without any
communication.
8 THE FRIENDS.
The circle of Jane's duties enlarged. Her hus-
band's parents became feeble in health ; they need-
ed the presence of children, and could also assist
their invalid son by receiving him into their house.
So Frank May and his wife removed to their
home, in a country village of Massachusetts. Her
parents, unwilling to relinquish the light of her
presence, removed with them. There was, of
course, great increase of care, to which was added
the necessity for vigilant economy ; but the energy
of the young matron grew with the demands upon
it. Her husband's mother was a little unreason-
able at times, but it was obvious that she consid-
ered her son very fortunate in his wife ; and Jane
thankfully accepted her somewhat reluctant affec-
tion. If a neighbor alluded to her numerous
cares, she replied cheerfully : " Yes, it is true that
I have a good deal on my shoulders ; but somehow
it never seems very heavy. The fact is," she
added, smiling, " there 's great satisfaction in feel-
ing one's self of so much importance. There are
my husband, my two children, my two fathers,
and my two mothers, all telling me that they
could n't get along without me ; and I think
that 's blessing enough for one poor woman. No-
body can tell, until they try it, what a satisfaction
there is in making old folks comfortable. They
cling so to those that take good care of them, that,
I declare, I find it does me about as much good as
it did to tend upon my babies." Blessed woman !
THE FRIENDS. 9
she carried sunshine within her, and so external
circumstances could not darken her life.
The external pressure increased as years passed
on. Her husband, her parents, her son, departed
from her, one after another. Still she smiled
through her tears, and said : " God has been very
merciful to me. It was such a comfort to be able
to tend upon them to the last, and to have them
die blessing me ! " The daughter married and
removed to Illinois. The heart of the bereaved
mother yearned to follow her ; but her husband's
parents were very infirm, and she had become
necessary to their comfort. When she gave the
farewell kiss to her child, she said : " There is no
one to take good care of the old folks if I leave
them. I will stay and close their eyes, and then,
if it be God's will, I will come to you."
Two years afterward, the old father died, but
his wife survived him several years. When the
estates of both fathers were settled, there remained
for the two widowed women a small house, an
acre of land, and a thousand dollars in the bank.
There they lived alone. The rooms that had
been so full of voices were silent now. Only, as
Jane moved about, " on household cares intent,"
she was often heard singing the tune her dear
Frank used to sing under the apple-tree by hei
window, in their old courting days : —
" The moon was shining silver bright,
No cloud the eye could view ;
l #
10 THE FRIENDS.
Her lover's step, in silent night,
Well pleased, the damsel knew."
Sometimes the blue eyes moistened as she sang;
but, ere the tears fell, tender memories would
modulate themselves into the tune of " Auld lang
syne." And sometimes the old mother, who sat
knitting in the sunshine, would say : " Sing that
again, Jenny. How my old man used to love to
hear you sing it ! Don't you remember he used
to say you sung like a thrush ? " Jenny would
smile, and say, " Yes, mother," and sing it over
again. Then, tenderly adapting herself to the old
woman's memories, she would strike into " John
Anderson, my Jo," to which her aged companion
would listen with an expression of serene satisfac-
tion. It was indeed a pleasure to listen ; for
Jenny's sweet voice remained unbroken by years ;
its tones were as silvery as her hair. Time, the
old crow, had traversed her face and left his foot-
prints there ; and the ploughshare of successive
sorrows had cut deep lines into the once smooth
surface ; but the beauty of the soul illumined her
faded countenance, as moonlight softens and glori-
fies ruins. When she carefully arranged the pil-
lows of the easy-chair, the aged mother, ere she
settled down for her afternoon's nap, would often
look up gratefully, and say, " Your eyes are just
as good as a baby's." It was a pleasant sound to
the dutiful daughter's ears, and made her forget
the querulous complaints in which her infirm com-
panion sometimes indulged.
THE FRIENDS. 11
The time came when this duty was finished
also ; and Mrs. Frank May found herself all alone
in the house, whither she had carried her sunshine
thirty years before. She wrote to her daughter
that, as soon as she could sell or let her little
homestead, she w r ould start for Illinois. She
busied herself to hasten the necessary arrange-
ments ; for her lonely heart was longing for her
only child, whose face she had not seen for seven
years. One afternoon, as she sat by the window
adding up accounts, her plans for the journey to
meet her daughter gradually melted into loving
reminiscences of her childhood, till she seemed to
see again the little smiling face that had looked
to her the most beautiful in all the world, and to
hear again the little pattering feet that once made
sweetest music in her ears. As she sat thus in
reverie at the open window, the setting sun bright-
ened the broad meadows, crowned the distant
hill-tops with glory, and threw a ribbon of gold
across the wall of her humble little room. The
breath of lilacs floated in, and with it came memo-
ries of how her little children used to come in with
their arms full of spring-blossoms, filling every
mug and pitcher they could find. The current
of her thoughts was interrupted by the sound of a
wagon. It stopped before her house. A stranger
J with two little children ! Who could it be ? She
opened the door. The stranger, taking off his hat
and bowing respectfully, said, " Are you Mrs.
Frank May?"
12 THE FRIENDS.
" Yes, sir," she replied.
" Well, then," rejoined he, " if you please, I '11
walk in, for I 've got some news to tell you. But
first I '11 bring in the children, for the little things
have been riding all day, and are pretty tired.'*
" Certainly, sir, bring them in and let them
rest, and I will give them a cup of milk," replied
the kindly matron.
A little boy and girl were lifted from the wagon
and led in. Mrs. May made an exclamation of
joyful surprise. The very vision she had had in
her mind a few minutes previous stood before her
bodily ! She took the little girl in her arms and
covered her face with kisses. " Why, bless your
little soul ! " she exclaimed ; " how much you look
like my daughter Jenny ! "
" My name ith Jenny," lisped the little one.
"Why, you see, ma'am — " stammered the
stranger ; he paused, in an embarrassed way, and
smoothed the nap of his hat with his sleeve.
" You see, ma'am — " he resumed ; then, breaking
down again, he suddenly seized the boy by the
hand, led him up to her, and said, " There,
Robin ! that 's your good old granny, you 've
heard so much about."
With a look of astonishment, Mrs. May said to
him : " And where is my daughter, sir ? Surely
these little children would n't come so far without
their mother."
The man again began to say, " You see,
THE FRIENDS. 13
ma'am — " but his heart came up and choked
his voice with a great sob. The old mother
understood its meaning. She encircled the two
children with her arms, and drew them closely to
her side. After a brief silence, she asked, in a
subdued voice, " When did she die ? "
Her calmness reassured the stranger, and with
a steady voice he replied : " You see, ma'am, your
daughter and her husband have been neighbors of
mine ever since they went to Illinois. There 's
been an epidemic fever raging among us, and they
both died of it. The last words your daughter said
were, ' Carry the children to my good mother.'
I 've been wanting to come and see my old father,
who lives about three miles from here, so I
brought them along with me. It 's sorrowful
news for you, ma'am, and I meant to have sort
of prepared you for it; but somehow I lost my
presence of mind, and forgot what I was going to
say. But I 'm glad to see you so sustained under
it, ma'am."
" I thank God that these are left," she replied ;
and she kissed the little faces that were upturned
to hers with an expression that seemed to say they
thought they should like their grandmother.
" I 'm so glad you 're helped to take it so," re-
joined the stranger. " Your daughter always told
me you was a woman that went straight ahead
and did your duty, trusting the Lord to bring
you through."
14 THE FRIENDS. '
" I am forgetting my duty now," she replied.
" You must be hungry and tired. If you '11 drive
to Neighbor Harrington's barn, he will take good
care of your horse, and I will prepare your sup-
per." _
" Thank you kindly, ma'am ; but I must jog on
to my old father's, to take supper with him."
Some boxes containing the clothing of the chil-
dren and their mother were brought in ; and, hav-
ing deposited them, the stranger departed amid
thanks and benedictions.
Mrs. Harrington had seen the wagon stop at
Mrs. May's door, and go off without the children.
Being of an inquiring mind, she straightway put
on her cape-bonnet, and went to see about it. She
found her worthy neighbor pinning towels round
the children's necks, preparatory to their supper
of brown bread and molasses, which they were in
a great hurry to eat.
" Why who on earth have you got here ! " ex-
claimed Neighbor Harrington.
" They are my daughter's children," replied
Mrs. May. " Bless their little souls ! if I 'd have
known they were coming, I 'd have had some
turnovers ready for them."
" I guess you '11 find they '11 make turnovers
enough,'^replied Mrs. Harrington smiling. " That
boy looks to me like a born rogue. But where 's
your daughter ? I did n't see any woman in the
wagon."
THE FRIENDS. 15
" The Lord has taken her to himself," replied
Mrs May, in quivering tones.
" You dorCt say so I " exclaimed Neighbor Har-
rington, raising both hands. " Bless me ! if I 'd
known that, I would n't have come right in upon
you so sudden."
They sat down and began to talk over the par-
ticulars which the stranger had- related. Mean-
while, the children, in hungry haste, were daubing
their chins and fingers with molasses. The little
four-year-old Jenny was the first to pause. Draw-
ing a long breath, expressive of great satisfaction,
she lisped out, " O Bubby ! larthiz top on bread !
what can be dooder ? "
Robin, who was two years her senior, and felt as
if he were as much as ten, gave a great shout of
laughter, and called out, " O Granny ! you don't
know how funny Sissy talks."
Grandmother went with a wet towel to wipe
their hands and faces, and when she heard what
the little Tot had said, she could not help smiling,
notwithstanding the heaviness of her heart. As
for Neighbor Harrington, she laughed outright.
" You see they are just as well satisfied as they
would have been with a dozen turnovers," said
she. " But this is a sad blow for you, Neighbor
May ; coming, too, just at the time when you
were taking so much comfort in the thoughts of
going to see your daughter ; and it will be a pretty
heavy load for a woman of your years to bring up
these orphans."
16 THE FRIENDS.
" O, it 's wonderful how the dispensations of
Providence are softened for us poor weak mortals,"
replied Mrs. May. " Only think what a mercy it
is that I have these treasures left ? Why, she
looks so much like her dear mother, that I seem to
have my own little Jenny right over again ; and I
can't seem to realize that it is n't so. You see,
Neighbor Harrington, that softens the blow won-
derfully. As for bringing up the children, I have
faith that the Lord will strengthen those who trust
in him."
" That 's just like you," rejoined Neighbor Har-
rington. " You always talk in that way. You
always seem to think that what happens is the
best that could happen. You 're pretty much like
this little one here. If you don't get tarts and
turnovers, you smack your lips and say, ' Lasses
top on bread ! what can be gooder ? ' "
The neighbors bade each other a smiling good-
night. When Mrs. Harrington returned home,
she told her husband the mournful news, and
added, " Mrs. May don't seem to feel it so much
as I should think she would." Yet the good
grandmother dropped many tears on the pillow
where those little orphans slept ; and kneeling by
their bedside, she prayed long and fervently for
support and guidance in rearing the precious souls
thus committed to her charge.
She had long been unused to children ; and they
did, as Neighbor Harrington had predicted, make
THE FRIENDS. 17
plenty of turnovers in the house. Robin had
remarkable gifts in that line. Endless were his
variations of mischief. Sometimes the stillness of
the premises was suddenly disturbed by a tremen-
dous fluttering and cackling, caused by his efforts
to catch the cockerel. The next thing, there was
the cat squalling and hissing, because he was
pulling her backward by the tail. Then he was
seized with a desire to explore the pig's sleeping
apartment, and by that process let him out into
the garden, and had the capital fun of chasing him
over flowers and vegetables. Once when the pig
upset little Sissy in his rounds, he had to lie down
and roll in the mud himself, with loud explosions
of laughter. Quiet little Jenny liked to make
gardens by sticking flowers in the sand, but it
particularly pleased him to send them all flying
into the air, at the point of his boot. When the
leaves were gay with autumn tints, she would
bring her apron full and sit at grandmother's feet
weaving garlands for the mantel-piece ; and it was
Master Robin's delight to pull them to pieces,
and toss them hither and yon. It was wonderful
how patiently the good grandmother put up with
his roguish pranks. " O Robin, dear, don't be-
have so," she would say. " Be a good boy.
Come ! I want to see how fast you grow. Take
off your boots, and Jenny will take off hers, and
stand even, and then we '11 see which is the
tallest."
18 THE FRIENDS.
" O, I 'm ever so much taller. I 'm almost a
man," responded Robin, kicking off his boots.
Honest little Jenny stood squarely and demurely
while grandmother compared their heights. But
roguish Robin raised himself as much as possible.
To hide his mirth, he darted out of doors as soon
as it was over, calling Jenny after him. Then he
gave her a poke, that toppled her half over, and
said, with a chuckle, " Sissy, I cheated grand-
mother. I stood tiptoe. But don't you tell ! "
But wild as Robin was, he dearly loved his
grandmother, and she loved him better than any-
thing else, excepting little Jenny. When Neigh-
bor Harrington said, " I should think that boy
would wear your life out," she answered, with a
smile : " I don't know what I should do with-
out the dear little creatures. I always liked to
be called by my Christian name, because it sounds
more hearty. There 's nobody to call me Jenny
now. The little ones call me granny, and the
neighbors call me old Mrs. Frank May. But I
have a little Jenny, and every time I hear her
name called, it makes me feel as if I was young
again. But what I like best is to hear her tuning
up her little songs. The little darling sings like
a robin."
" Then she sings like we," exclaimed her ubiq-
uitous brother, who had climbed up to the open
window, holding on by the sill. " I can whistle
most any tune ; can't I ? "
THE FRIENDS. 19
" Yes, dear, you whistle like a quail," replied
his grandmother.
Satisfied with this share of praise, down he
dropped, and the next minute they saw him
rushing down the road, in full chase after a pass-
ing dog. Mrs. May laughed, as she said : "It
seems as if he was in twenty places at once.
But he 's a good boy. There 's nothing the mat-
ter with him, only he 's so full of fun that it
will run over all the time. He '11 grow steadier,
by and by. He brought in a basket of chips to-
day without upsetting them ; and he never made
out to do that before. He 's as bright as a steel
button ; and if I am only enabled to guide him
right, he will make such a man as my dear hus-
band would have been proud to own for a grand-
son. I used to think it was impossible to love
anything better than I loved my little ones ; but
I declare I think a grandmother takes more
comfort in her grandchildren than she did in
her own children."
"Well, you do beat all," replied Mrs. Har-
rington. " You 've had about as much affliction
as any woman I know ; but you never seem to
think you 've had any trouble. I told my hus-
band I reckoned you would admit it was a tough
job to bring up that boy, at your age ; but it
seems you don't."
"Why the fact is,", rejoined Mrs. May, "the
troubles of this life come so mixed up with bless-
20 THE FRIENDS.
ings, that we are willing to endure one for the
sake of having the other ; and then our afflic-
tions do us so much good, that I reckon they
are blessings, too."
" I suppose they are," replied Mrs. Harring-
ton, " though they don't always seem so. But
I came in to tell you that we are going to
Mount Nobscot for huckleberries to-morrow ; and
if you and the children would like to go, there 's
room enough in our big wagon."
" Thank you heartily," replied Mrs. May. " It
will be a charming frolic for the little folks.
But pray don't tell them anything about it to-
night ; if you do, Robin won't sleep a wink, or
let anybody else sleep."
The sun rose clear, and the landscape, re-
cently washed by copious showers, looked clean
and fresh. The children were in ecstasies at
the idea of going to the hill behind which they
had so often seen the sun go down. But so
confused were their ideas of space, that, while
Jenny inquired whether Nobscot was as far off as
Illinois, Robin asked, every five minutes, whether
they had got there. When they were lifted
from the wagon, they eagerly ran forward, and
Robin's voice was soon heard shouting, " O
Granny ! here 's lots o' berries ! " They went
to picking green, red, and black ones with all
zeal, while grandmother proceeded to fill her
basket. When Mrs. Harrington came, she said,
THE FRIENDS. 21
" O, don't stop to pick here. We shall find
them twice as thick farther up the hill."
46 1 '11 make sure of these," replied Mrs. May.
" I 'm of the old woman's mind, who said she
always took her comfort in this world as she
went along, for fear it would n't be here when
she came back."
" You 're a funny old soul," rejoined Neighbor
Harrington. " How young you look to-day ! '
In fact, the morning air, the pleasant drive,
the joyous little ones, and the novelty of going
from home, so renovated the old lady, that her
spirits rose to the temperature of youth, her color
heightened, and her step was more elastic than
usual.
When they had filled their baskets, they sat
under the trees, and opened the boxes of lun-
cheon. The children did their full share toward
making them empty. When Robin could eat no
more, he followed Joe Harrington into a neigh-
boring field to examine some cows that were
grazing. The women took out their knitting,
and little Jenny sat at their feet, making hills
of moss, while she sang about
A kitty with soft white fur,
Whose only talk was a pleasant purr.
The grandmother hummed the same tune, but
in tones too low to drown the voice of her dar-
ling. Looking round on the broad panorama of
hills, meadows, and cornfields, dotted with farm-
22 THE FRIENDS.
houses, her soul was filled with the spirit of
summer, and she began to sing, in tones wonder-
fully clear and strong for her years,
" Among the trees, when humming-bees
At buds and flowers were hanging,"
when Robin scrambled up the hill, calling out,
" Sing something funny, Granny ! Sing that song
about me!^ He made a motion to. scatter Jen-
ny's mosses with his foot ; but his grandmother
said, " If you want me to sing to you, you must
keep quiet." He stretched himself full length
before her, and throwing his feet up, gazed in
her face while she sang:
" Robin was a rovin' boy,
Rantin' rovin', rantin' rovin';
Robin was a rovin' boy,
Rantin' rovin' Robin.
" He '11 have misfortunes great and sma',
But ay a heart aboon them a' ;
He '11 be a credit till us a' ;
We '11 a' be proud o' Robin."
" That means me ! " he said, with an exultant
air ; and, turning a somerset, he rolled down the
hill, from the bottom of which they heard him
whistling the tune.
Altogether, they had a very pleasant day among
the trees and bushes. It brought back very viv-
idly to Mrs. May's mind similar ramblings with
Hatty Brown in the fields of Maine. As they
walked slowly toward their wagon, she was look-
ing dreamily down the long vista of her life, at the
THE FRIENDS. 23
entrance of which she seemed to see a vision of her
handsome friend Hatty pelting her with flowers
in girlish glee. The children ran on, while older
members of the party lingered i to arrange the bas-
kets. Presently Jenny came running back, and
said, " Granny, there 's a carriage down there ;
and a lady asked me my name, and said I was a
pretty little girl."
" Pretty is that pretty does" replied the grand-
mother. " That means it is pretty to be good."
Then, turning to Mrs. Harrington, she asked,
" Whose carriage is that ? "
She answered, " It passed us last Sunday, when
we were going to meeting, and husband said it
belonged to Mr. Jones, that New York gentleman
who bought the Simmes estate, you know. I guess
that old lady is Mrs. Gray, his wife's mother."
" Mrs. who f ' exclaimed her companion, in a
very excited tone.
" They say her name is Gray," replied Mrs.
Harrington ; " but what is the matter with you ?
You 're all of a tremble."
Without answering, Mrs. May hurried forward
with a degree of agility that surprised them all.
She paused in front of an old lady very hand-
somely dressed in silver-gray silk. She looked at
the thin, sharp features, the dull black eyes, and
the wrinkled forehead. It was so unlike the
charming vision she had seen throwing flowers
in the far-off vista of memory ! She asked herself,
24 THE FRIENDS.
" Can it be she ? " Then, with a suppressed, half-
embarrassed eagerness, she asked, " Are you the
Mrs. Gray who used to be Hatty Brown ? "
" That was formerly my name," replied the
lady, with dignified politeness.
She threw her arms round her neck, nothing
doubting, and exclaimed : " O Hatty ! dear Hatty !
How glad I am to see you ! I 've been thinking
of you a deal to-day."
The old lady received the embrace passively,
and, readjusting her tumbled cape, replied, "I
think I 've seen your face somewhere, ma'am, but
I don't remember where."
" What ! don't you know me ? Your old friend,
Jenny White, who married Frank May ? "
" O yes, I remember. But you 've changed a
good deal since I used to know you. Has your
health been good since I saw you, Mrs. May ? "
This response chilled her friend's heart like an
east wind upon spring flowers. In a confused way,
she stammered out, u I 've been very well, thank
you ; and I hope you have enjoyed the same bless-
ing. But I must go and see to the children now.
I thought to be sure you 'd know me. Good by."
" Good by, ma'am," responded the old lady in
gray.
The carriage was gone when Mrs. Harrington
and her party entered the big wagon to return
home. Mrs. May, having made a brief explana-
tion of her proceedings, became unusually silent.
THE FRIENDS. 25
It was a lovely afternoon, but she did not comment
on the beauty of the landscape, as she had done
in the morning. She was kind and pleasant, but
her gayety had vanished. The thought revolved
through her mind : " Could it be my shabby gown ?
Hatty always thought a deal of dress." But the
suspicion seemed to her mean, and she strove to
drive it away.
" Meeting that old acquaintance seems to make
you down-hearted," remarked Mrs. Harrington ;
" and that 's something new for you."
" I was disappointed that she did n't know me,"
replied Mrs. May ; " but when I reflect, it seems
very natural. I doubt whether I should have
known her, if you hadn't told me her name.
I 'm glad it did n't happen in the morning ; for
it might have clouded my day a little. I 've
had a beautiful time."
" Whatever comes, you are always thankful it
was n't something worse," rejoined Mrs. Harring-
ton. " Little Jenny is going to be just like you.
She '11 never be pining after other people's pies
and cakes. Whatever she has, she '11 call it ' Lasses
top on bread ! What can be gooder ? ' Won't you,
Sissy ? "
" Bless the dear little soul ! she 's fast asleep ! "
said her grandmother. She placed the pretty little
head in her lap, and tenderly stroked back the
silky curls. The slight cloud soon floated away
from her serene soul, and she began to sing,
2
26 THE FRIENDS.
" Away with melancholy," and u Life let us cher-
ish." As the wagon rolled toward home, people
who happened to be at their doors or windows
said : " That is old Mrs. Frank May. What a
clear, sweet voice she has for a woman of her
years ! "
Mrs. May looked in her glass that night longer
than she had done for years. " I am changed,"
said she to herself. " No wonder Hatty did n't
know me ! " She took from the till of her trunk
a locket containing a braid of glossy black hair.
She gazed at it awhile, and then took off her spec-
tacles, to wipe from them the moisture of her
tears. " And this is my first meeting with Hatty
since we exchanged lockets ! " murmured she.
" If we had foreseen it then, could we have be-
lieved it ? "
The question whether or not it was a duty to
call on Mrs. Gray disturbed her mind considera-
bly. Mrs. Harrington settled it for her off-hand.
" She did not ask you to come," said she ; " and
if she 's a mind to set herself up, let her take the
comfort of it. Folks say she 's a dreadful stiff,
prim old body ; rigid Orthodox ; sure that every-
body who don't think just as she does will go to
the bad place."
These words were not uttered with evil inten-
tion, but their effect was to increase the sense of
separation. On the other hand, influences were
not wanting to prejudice Mrs. Gray against her
THE FRIENDS. 27
former friend, whose sudden appearance and en-
thusiastic proceedings had disconcerted her precise
habits. When the Sewing-Society met at her son-
in-law's house, she happened to be seated next to
an austere woman, of whom she inquired, " What
sort of person is Mrs. Frank May ? "
" I don't know her," was the reply. " She
goes to the Unitarian meeting, and I have no
acquaintance with people of that society. I should
judge she was rather light-minded. When I 've
passed by her house, I 've often heard her singing
songs ; and I should think psalms and hymns
would be more suitable to her time of life. I
rode by there once on Sunday, when I was com-
ing home from a funeral, and she was singing
something that sounded too lively for a psalm-
tune. Miss Crosby told me she heard her say
that heathens were just as likely to be saved as
Christians."
" O, I am sorry to hear that," replied Mrs.
Gray. " She and I were brought up under the
Rev. Mr. Peat's preaching, and he was sound
Orthodox."
" I did n't know she was an acquaintance of
yours," rejoined the austere lady, " or I would n't
have called her light-minded. I never heard any-
thing against her, only what she said about the
heathen."
Mrs. May, having revolved the subject in her
straightforward mind, came to the conclusion that
28 THE FRIENDS.
Neighbor Harrington's advice was not in con-
formity with the spirit of kindness. " Since Mrs.
Gray is a stranger in town, it is my place to call
first," said she. "I will perform my duty, and
then she can do as she pleases about returning the
visit." So she arrayed herself in the best she
had, placed the children in the care of Mrs. Har-
rington, and went forth on her mission of polite-
ness. The large mirror, the chairs covered with
green damask, and the paper touched here and
there with gold, that shimmered in the rays of the
setting sun, formed a striking contrast to her own
humble home. Perhaps this unaccustomed feeling
imparted a degree of constraint to her manner
when her old friend entered the room, in ample
folds of shining gray silk, and a rich lace cap with
pearl-colored ribbons. Mrs. Gray remarked to
her that she bore her age remarkably well ; to
which Mrs. May replied that folks told her so, and
she supposed it was because she generally had
pretty good health. It did not occur to her to
return the compliment, for it would not have been
true. Jenny was now better-looking than Hatty.
Much of this difference might be attributed to her
more perfect health, but still more it was owing
to the fact that, all their lives long, one had lived
to be ministered unto, and the other to minister.
The interview was necessarily a formal one.
Mrs. Gray inquired about old acquaintances in
Maine, but her visitor had been so long absent
THE FRIENDS. 29
*
from that part of the country that she had little
or nothing to tell, and all she had struggled
through meanwhile would have been difficult for
the New York lady to realize. The remark about
her light-mindedness was constantly present in
Mrs. Gray's mind, and at parting she thus ex-
pressed the anxiety it occasioned : " You say you
have a great deal to do, Mrs. May, and indeed
you must have, with all the care of those little
children ; but I hope you find time to think about
the salvation of vour soul."
Her visitor replied, with characteristic simpli-
city : " I don't know whether I do, in the sense I
suppose you mean. I have thought a great deal
about what is right and what is wrong, and I have
prayed for light to see what was my duty, and for
strength to perform it. But the fact is, I have
had so much to do for others, that I have n't had
much time to think about myself, in any way."
Then, with some passing remark about the vines
at the door, the old ladies bade each other good-
ly.
When Mrs. Harrington was informed of the
conversation, she said, in her blunt way : "It was
a great piece of impertinence in her. She 'd bet-
ter take care of her own soul than trouble herself
about yours."
"I don't think so," replied Mrs. May. "I be-
lieve she meant it kindly. She don't seem to me
to be stern or proud. But we 've been doing and
30 THE FRIENDS.
thinking such very different things, for a great
many years, that she don't know what to say to
me, and I am just as much puzzled how to get at
her. I reckon all these things will come right in
another world."
During the summer she often saw Mr. Jones's
carriage pass her house, and many a time, when
the weather was fine, she placed fresh flowers
on the mantel-piece, in a pretty vase which Hatty
had given her for a bridal present, thinking to
herself that Mrs. Gray would be likely to ride
out, and might give her a call. When autumn
came, she filled the vase with grasses and bright
berries, which she gathered in her ramblings with
the children. Once, the carriage passed her as
she was walking home, with a little one in either
hand, and Mrs. Gray looked out and bowed. At
last a man came with a barrel of apples and a
message. The purport of it was, that she had
gone with her daughter's family to New York for
the winter; that she intended to have called on
Mrs. May, but had been poorly and made no
visits.
Winter passed rapidly. The children attended
school constantly ; it was grandmother's business
to help them about their lessons, to knit them
warm socks and mittens, to mend their clothes,
and fill their little dinner-kettle with provisions.
The minister, the deacon, and the neighbors in
general felt interested to help the worthy woman
THE FRIENDS. 31
»
along in the task she had undertaken. Many-
times a week she repeated, " How my path is
strewn with blessings ! "
With the lilacs the New York family came
back to their summer/ residence. The tidings
soon spread abroad that Mrs. Gray was failing
fast, and was seldom strong enough to ride out.
Mrs. May recalled to mind certain goodies, of
which Hatty used to be particularly fond in their
old girlish times. The next day she started from
home with a basket nicely covered with a white
damask napkin, on the top of which lay a large
bunch of Lilies of the Valley, imbedded in one of
their broad green leaves. She found Mrs. Gray
bolstered up in her easy-chair, looking quite thin
and pale. "I know you have everything you
want, and better than I can bring," said she;
" but I remembered you used to like these goodies
when we were girls, and I wanted to bring you
something, so I brought these." She laid the
flowers in the thin hand, and uncovered her
basket.
The invalid looked up in her face with a smile,
and said, " Thank you, Jenny ; this is very kind
of you."
"God bless you for calling me Jenny!' ex-
claimed her warm-hearted old friend, with a gush
of tears. " There is nobody left to call me Jenny
now. The children call me Granny, and the
neighbors call me old Mrs. Frank May. O, it
sounds like old times, Hatty."
32 THE FRIENDS.
The ice gave way under the touch of that one
sunbeam. Mrs. Gray and Mrs. May vanished from
their conversation, and only Hatty and Jenny re-
mained. For several months they met every day,
and warmed their old hearts with youthful mem-
ories. Once onlv, a little of the former restraint
returned for a few minutes. Mrs. Gray betrayed
what was in her mind, by saying : " I suppose,
Jenny, you know I have n't any property. My
husband failed before he died, and I am dependent
on my daughter."
" I never inquired about your property, and I
don't care anything about it," replied Mrs. May,
rather bruskly, and with a slight flush on her
cheeks ; but, immediately subsiding into a gentler
tone, she added, "I'm very glad, Hatty, that you
have a daughter who is able to make you so com-
fortable."
Thenceforth the invalid accepted her disinter-
ested services without question or doubt. True
to her old habits of being ministered unto, she
made large demands on her friend's time and
strength, apparently unconscious how much incon-
venience it must occasion to an old person charged
with the whole care of two orphan children. Mrs.
May carefully concealed any impediments in the
way, and, by help of Mrs. Harrington, was always
ready to attend upon her old friend. She was
often called upon to sing " Auld Lang Syne " ; and
sometimes, when the invalid felt stronger than
THE FRIENDS, 33
common, she would join in with her feeble, cracked
voice. Jenny sat looking at Hatty's withered
face, and dim black eyes, and she often felt a
choking in her throat, while they sang together :
" We twa hae ran about the braes,
And pu'd the gowans fine."
More frequently they sang the psalm-tunes they
used to sing when both sat in the singing-seats
with Frank May and Harry Blake. They seldom
parted without Jenny's reading a chapter of the
New Testament in a soft, serious tone. One day
Mrs. Gray said : "I have a confession to make,
Jenny. I was a little prejudiced against you, and
thought I should n't care to renew our acquaint-
ance. Somebody told me you was light-minded,
and that you told Miss Crosby the heathen were
just as likely to be saved as Christians. But you
seem to put your trust in God, Jenny ; and it is
a great comfort to me to hear you read and sing."
" I have a confession to make, too," replied Mrs.
May. " They told me you was a very stern and
bigoted Orthodox ; and you know, when we were
girls, Hatty, I never took much to folks that were
too strict to brew a Saturday, for fear the beer
would work a Sunday."
" Ah, we were giddy young things in those
days," replied her friend, with much solemnity in
her manner.
" Well, Hatty dear, I 'm a sort of an old girl
now," replied Mrs. May. " I am disposed to
2* C
34 THE FRIENDS.
be merciful toward the short-comings of my fel-
low-creatures, and I cannot believe our Heavenly
Father will be less so. I remember Miss Cros-
by talked to me about the heathen one day, and
I thought she talked hard. I don't recollect
what I said to her ; but after I arrived at years
of reflection I came to some conclusions differ-
ent from the views we were brought up in.
You know my dear Frank was an invalid many
years. He was always in the house, and we
read to each other, and talked over what we
read. In that way, I got the best part of the
education I have after I was married. Among
other things he read to me some translations from
what the Hindoos believe in as their Bible ; and
some of the writings of Rammohun Roy ; and
we both came to the conclusion that some who
were called heathens might be nearer to God
than many professing Christians. You know,
Hatty, that Jesus walked and talked with his
disciples, and their hearts were stirred, but they
did n't know him. Now it seems to me that the
spirit of Jesus may walk and talk with good
pious Hindoos and Mahometans, and may stir
their hearts, though they don't know him."
" You may be right," rejoined the invalid.
u God's ways are above our ways. It 's a pity
friends should be set against one another on ac-
count of what they believe, or don't believe.
Pray for me, Jenny, and I will pray for you."
THE FRIENDS. 35
It was the latter part of October, when Mrs.
May carried a garland of bright autumn leaves
to pin up opposite her friend's bed. " It is beau-
tiful," said the invalid; "but the colors are not
so brilliant as those you and I used to gather in
Maine. O, how the woods glowed there, at
this season ! I wish I could see them again."
Mrs. May smiled, and answered, " Perhaps
you will, dear."
Her friend looked in her face, with an earnest,
questioning glance ; but she only said, " Sing our
old favorite tune of St. Martin's, Jenny." She
seated herself by the bedside and sang:
" The Lord my shepherd is,
I shall be well supplied;
Since he is mine, and I am his,
What can I want beside ? "
Perceiving that the invalid grew drowsy, she con-
tinued to hum in a low, lulling tone. When she
was fast asleep, she rose up, and, after gazing
tenderly upon her, crept softly out of the room.
She never looked in those old dim eyes again.
The next morning they told her the spirit had
departed from its frail tenement.
Some clothing and a few keepsakes were trans-
mitted to Mrs. May soon after, in compliance
with the expressed wish of her departed friend,
j Among them was the locket containing a braid
of her own youthful hair. It was the very color
of little Jenny's, only the glossy brown was a
36 THE FRIENDS.
shade darker. She placed the two lockets side
by side, and wiped the moisture from her spec-
tacles as she gazed upon them. Then she wrapped
them together, and wrote on them, with a trem-
bling hand, " The hair of Grandmother and her
old friend Hatty; for my darling little Jenny."
When Neighbor Harrington came in to ex-
amine the articles that had been sent, the old
lady said to her : " There is nobody left now to
call me Jenny. But here is my precious little
Jenny. She '11 never forsake her old granny ;
will she, darling ? ' The child snuggled fondly
to her side, and stood on tiptoe to kiss the wrin-
kled face, which was to her the dearest face in
the whole world.
She never did desert her good old friend. She
declined marrying during Mrs. May's lifetime, and
waited upon her tenderly to the last. Robin,
who proved a bright scholar, went to the West
to teach school, with the view of earning money
to buy a farm, where grandmother should be
the queen. He wrote her many loving letters,
and sent portions of his earnings to her and
Sissy ; but she departed this life before his earthly
paradise was made ready for her. The last tune
she sang was St. Martin's ; and the last words
she spoke were : " How many blessings I have
received ! Thank the Lord for all his mercies ! "
THE GOOD OLD GRANDMOTHER,
WHO DIED AGED EIGHTY.
SOFTLY wave the silver hair
From off that aged brow !
That crown of glory, worn so long,
A fitting crown is now.
Fold reverently the weary hands,
That toiled so long and well 5
And, while your tears of sorrow fall,
Let sweet thanksgivings swell.
That life-work, stretching o'er long years,
A varied web has been ;
With silver strands by sorrow wrought,
And sunny gleams between.
These silver hairs stole softly on,
Like flakes of falling snow,
That wrap the green earth lovingly,
When autumn breezes blow.
Each silver hair, each wrinkle there,
Records some good deed done ;
38 THE GOOD OLD GRANDMOTHER.
Some flower she cast along the way,
Some spark from love's bright sun.
How bright she always made her home !
It seemed as if the floor
Was always flecked with spots of sun,
And barred with brightness o'er.
The very falling of her step
Made music as she went ;
A loving song was on her lip,
The song of full content.
And now, in later years, her word
Has been a blessed thing
In many a home, where glad she saw
Her children's children spring.
Her widowed life has happy been,
With brightness born of heaven ;
So pearl and gold in drapery fold
The sunset couch at even.
O gently fold the weary hands
That toiled so long and well ;
The spirit rose to angel bands,
When off earth's mantle fell.
She 's safe within her Father's house,
Where many mansions be ;
O pray that thus such rest may come,
Dear heart, to thee and me !
Anonymous.
THE CONSOLATIONS OF AGE.
TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF ZSCHOKKE S
AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
ROM all I have narrated concerning
my good and evil days, some may infer
that I have been on the whole a favor-
ite of fortune; that I may very well
be philosophic, and maintain a rosy good-humor,
since, with the exception of a few self-torments of
the fancy, I have seldom or never experienced
a misfortune. But indeed I have met with what
men usually style great misfortunes, or evils, though
I never so named them. Like every mortal, I
have had my share of what is called human misery.
The weight of a sudden load has sometimes, for a
moment, staggered me and pressed me down, as
is the case with others. But, with renewed buoy-
ancy of spirit, I have soon risen again, and borne
the burden allotted to me, without discontent.
Nay, more than this, though some may shake
their heads incredulously, it is a fact that worldly
suffering has often not been disagreeable to me.
40 THE CONSOLATIONS OF AGE.
It has weaned me from placing my trust in tran-
sitory things. It has shown me the degree of
strength and self-reliance I could retain, even at
that period of life when the passions reign. I am
fully convinced that there is no evil in the world
but sin. Nothing but consciousness of guilt spins a
dark thread, which reaches through the web of all
our days, even unto the grave. God is not the
author of calamity, but only man, by his weakness,
his over-estimate of pompous vanities, and the
selfish nurture of his appetites. He weeps like a
child because he cannot have his own way, and
even at seventy years of age is not yet a man.
He bewails himself, because God does not mind
him. Yet every outward misfortune is in truth
as worthy a gift of God as outward success.
In common with others, I have met with ingrat-
itude from many ; but it did not disquiet me ;
because what I had done for them was not done
for thanks. Friends have deceived me, but it did
not make me angry with them ; for I saw that I
had only deceived myself with regard to them.
I have endured misapprehension and persecution
with composure, being aware of the unavoidable
diversity of opinions, and of the passions thereby
excited. I have borne the crosses of poverty with-
out a murmur ; for experience had taught me that
outward poverty often brings inward wealth. I
have lost a moderate property, which I had ac-
quired by toil, but such losses did not imbitter me
THE CONSOLATIONS OF AGE. 41
for a single day ; they only taught me to work
and spare. I have been the happy father of happy
children. Twelve sons and one daughter I have
counted ; and I have had to sit, with a bleeding
heart, at the death-bed of four of those sons. As
they drew their last breath, I felt that divine
sorrow which transforms the inner man. My
spirit rested on the Father of the universe, and
it was well with me. My dead ones were not
parted from me. Those who remained behind
drew the more closely to one another, while eager-
ly looking toward those who had gone before
them to other mansions of the Great Father. It
was our custom to think of the deceased as still
living in the midst of us. We were wont to talk
about their little adventures, their amusing sallies,
and the noble traits of their characters. Every-
thing noteworthy concerning them, as well as
what related to the living members of the family,
was recorded by the children in a chronicle they
kept in the form of a newspaper, and was thus
preserved from oblivion. Death is something fes-
tal, great, like all the manifestations of God here
below. The death of my children hallowed me ;
it lifted me more and more out of the shows of
earth, into the divine. It purified my thoughts
and feelings. I wept, as a child of the dust must
do ; but in spirit I was calm and cheerful, because
I knew to whom I and mine belonged.
At the beginning of old age, I could indeed
42 THE CONSOLATIONS OF AGE.
call myself a happy man. On my seventieth
birthday, I felt as if I were standing on a moun-
tain height, at whose foot the ocean of eternity
was audibly rushing ; while behind me, life, with
its deserts and flower-gardens, its sunny days and
its stormy days, spread out green, wild, and beau-
tiful. Formerly, when I read or heard of the
joylessness of age, I was filled with sadness ; but
I now wondered that it presented so much that
was agreeable. The more the world diminished
and grew dark, the less I felt the loss of it ; for
the dawn of the next world grew ever clearer
and clearer.
Thus rejoicing in God, and with him, I ad-
vance into the winter of life, beyond which no
spring awaits me on this planet. The twilight
of my existence on earth is shining round me ;
but the world floats therein in a rosy light, more
beautiful than the dawn of life. Others may
look back with homesickness to the lost paradise
of childhood. That paradise was never mine.
I wandered about, an orphan, unloved, and for-
saken of all but God. I thank him for this
allotment ; for it taught me to build my paradise
within. The solemn evening is at hand, and it
is welcome. I repent not that I have lived.
Others, in their autumn, can survey and count
up their collected harvests. This I cannot. I
have scattered seed, but whither the wind has
carried it I know not. The good-will alone was
THE CONSOLATIONS OF AGE. 43
mine. God's hand decided concerning the suc-
cess of my labor. Many an unproductive seed
I / have sown ; but I do not, on that account,
complain either of myself or of Heaven. For-
tune has lavished on me no golden treasures ; but
contented with what my industry has acquired,
and my economy has preserved, I enjoy that
noble independence at which I have
always aimed ; and out of the little
I possess I have been some-
times able to afford assist-
ance to others who
were less for-
tunate.
An healthy old fellow, that is not a fool, is the
happiest creature living. It is at that time of life
only men enjoy their faculties with pleasure and
satisfaction. It is then we have nothing to manage^
as the phrase is ; we speak the downright truth ;
and whether the rest of the world will give us the
privilege, or not, we have so little to ask of them,
that we can take it. — Steele.
THE OLD MAN DREAMS.
By OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
OFOR one hour of youthful joy !
Give back my twentieth spring !
I 'd rather laugh a bright-haired boy,
Than reign a gray-beard king !
Off with the wrinkled spoils of age !
Away with learning's crown !
Tear out life's wisdom-written page,
And dash its trophies down !
One moment let my life-blood stream
From boyhood's fount of fame !
Give me one giddy, reeling dream
Of life all love and flame !
My listening angel heard the prayer,
And, calmly smiling, said,
" If I but touch thy silvered hair,
Thy hasty wish hath sped.
" But is there nothing in thy track
To bid thee fondly stay,
THE OLD MAN DREAMS. 45
While the swift seasons hurry back
To find the wished-for day ? "
Ah, truest soul of womankind !
Without thee, what were life ?
One bliss I cannot leave behind :
I '11 take — my — precious — wife !
The angel took a sapphire pen
And wrote in rainbow dew,
" The man would be a boy again,
And be a husband too ! "
" And is there nothing yet unsaid,
Before the change appears ?
Remember, all their gifts have fled
With those dissolving years ! "
Why, yes ; for memory would recall
My fond paternal joys ;
I could not bear to leave them all :
I '11 take — my — girl — and — boys !
The smiling angel dropped his pen, —
" Why, this will never do ;
The man would be a boy again,
And be a father too !"
And so I laughed, — my laughter woke
The household with its noise, —
And wrote my dream, when morning broke,
To please the gray-haired boys.
A RUSSIAN LADY
OF THE OLD SCHOOL*
HSlVE me your hand, dear reader, and
j:J accompany me on a visit to one of my
neighbors. The day is fine, the blue
sky of the month of May is a beauti-
ful object ; the smooth young leaves of the white
hazel-trees are as brilliant as if they had been
newly washed. The large, smooth fields are cov-
ered with that fine young grass which the sheep
love so much to crop ; on the right and left, on
the long slopes of the hills, the rye-grass is wav-
ing, and over its smooth swell glide the shadows
of the little flying clouds. In the distance, the
woods are resplendent with the brilliant light ; the
ponds glitter, and the villages are bathed in yellow
rays. Innumerable larks fly about, singing and
beating their wings in unison ; making their ap-
pearance first in one spot, then in another, they
rise lightly from the fields, and again are as quick-
* From Life in the Interior of Russia.
A RUSSIAN LADY. 47
ly lost in them. The rooks station themselves on
the highway, looking up fixedly at the sun ; they
move aside to let you pass, or foolishly fly forward
ten paces on the edge of the road. On the slopes
beyond a ravine a laborer is at his plough, and a
piebald foal, with its miserable little tail, dishev-
elled mane, and long, frail legs, runs after its
mother, and we may just hear its plaintive neigh.
We enter a birch wood, and a fresh and strong
odor fills the air ; we reach the gate of an enclo-
sure ; the coachman descends, and, while the
horses snort, and the right wheeler plays with
his tail, and rubs his jaw against the pole, he
opens the creaking gate, and, reseating himself,
we roll on.
A village now presents itself, and, after passing
five or six farm-yards, we turn to the right, and
descending rapidly, are soon driving along an em-
bankment. Beyond a pond of moderate extent,
and behind apple-trees and clustering lilacs, an old
wooden house is now visible, painted red, and pos-
sessing two chimneys. We drive along a paling
on the left, and pass through a large open carriage
entrance, saluted by the husky barkings of three
old worn-out dogs. My groom gallantly salutes
an old housekeeper, who is peeping out of the
pantry through a foot and a half window. We
draw up before the door near the veranda of a
gloomy little house. It is the abode of Tatiana
Borissovna. But there she is herself, saluting us
48 A RUSSIAN LADY
from the window. " Good morning, good morn-
ing, Madame."
Tatiana Borissovna is a woman of about fifty ;
she has large bluish-gray eyes, slightly prominent,
a nose inclined to flatness, cherry cheeks, and a
double chin. Her face beams with sweetness and
goodness. She once had a husband, but so long
ago that no one has any recollection of it. She
scarcely ever leaves her little property, keeps up
but a slight connection with her neighbors, seldom
invites them to her house, and likes none but
young people. Her father was a poor gentleman,
and she consequently received a very imperfect
education ; in other words, she does not speak
French, and has never seen even Moscow, not
to speak of St. Petersburg. But, spite of these
little defects, she manages all her affairs in her
country life so simply and wisely ; she has so large
a way of thinking, of feeling, and comprehending
things ; she is so little accessible to the thousand
weaknesses which are generally found in our good
provincial ladies, — poor things, — that, in truth,
one cannot help admiring her. Only consider
that she lives all the year round within the pre-
cincts of her own village and estate, quite isolated,
and that she remains a stranger to all the tittle-
tattle of the locality ; does not rail, slander, take
offence, or choke and fret with curiosity ; that
envy, jealousy, aversion, and restlessness of body
and mind, are all unknown to her ; only consider
OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 49
this, and grant that she is a marvel. Every day
after eleven o'clock she is dressed in a gown of
iron-gray taffeta, and a white cap with long pure
ribbons ; she likes to eat, and make others do the
same ; but she eats moderately, and lets others fol-
low her example. Preserves, fruits, pickled meats,
are all intrusted to the housekeeper. With what,
then, does she occupy herself, and how does she
fill up her day ? She reads, perhaps, you will
say. No, she does not read ; and, to speak the
truth, people must think of others than Tatiana
Borissovna when they print a book. In winter,
if she is alone, our Tatiana Borissovna sits near a
window, and quietly knits a stocking ; in summer
she goes and comes in her garden, where she
plants and waters flowers, picks the caterpillars
from her shrubs, puts props under her bushes, and
sprinkles sand over the garden paths ; then she
can amuse herself for hours with the feathered race
in her court-yard, with her kittens and pigeons,
all of which she feeds herself. She occupies her-
self very little with housekeeping. If, unexpect-
edly, any good young neighbor chances to look in,
she is then as happy as possible ; she establishes
herself upon her divan, regales her visitor with
tea, hears all he has to say, sometimes gives him
little friendly pats on the cheek, laughs heartily at
his sallies, and speaks little herself. Are you
annoyed, or the victim of some misfortune ? She
consoles you with the most sympathizing words,
3 D
50 A RUSSIAN LADY.
and opens up various means of relief, all full of
good sense. How many there are, who, after
confiding to her their family secrets and their
private griefs, have found themselves so relieved
by unburdening their minds, that they have bathed
her hands with their tears. In general, she sits
right before her guest, her head leaning lightly
on her left hand, looking in his face with so much
kindly interest, smiling with such friendly good-
nature, that one can scarcely keep himself from
saying, " Ah ! what an excellent woman you are,
Tatiana Borissovna. Come, I will conceal from
you nothing that weighs upon my heart. '
In her delightful, nice little rooms, one
is so pleased with himself and every-
body, that he is unwilling to
leave them ; in this little
heaven, the weather
is always at
"set fair."
r
The happiness of life may be greatly increased
by small courtesies in which there is no parade,
whose voice is too still to tease, and which manifest
themselves by tender and affectionate looks, and
little kind acts of attention, giving others the pref-
erence in every little enjoyment at the table, in
the field, walking, sitting, or standing. — Sterne.
THE OLD MAN'S SONG.
TO HIS WIFE.
OH, don't be sorrowful, darling !
Now don't be sorrowful, pray !
For, taking the year together, my dear,
There is n't more night than day.
'Tis rainy weather, my darling ;
Time's waves they heavily run ;
But, taking the year together, my dear,
There is n't more cloud than sun.
"We are old folks now, my darling ;
Our heads they are growing gray ;
But, taking the year all round, my dear,
You will always find the May.
We 've had our May, my darling,
And our roses, long ago ;
And the time of the year is coming, my dear,
For the long dark nights and the snow.
52 THE OLD MAN'S SONG.
But God is God, my darling,
Of night, as well as of day ;
And we feel and know that we can go
Wherever He leads the way.
Ay, God of the night, my darling ;
Of the night of death so grim.
The gate that from life leads out, good wife,
Is the gate that leads to Him.
Anonymous.
THE TWENTY-SEVENTH OF MARCH.
THE BIRTHDAY OF .
Now be the hours that yet remain to thee
Stormy or sunny, sympathy and love,
That inextinguishably dwell within
Thy heart, shall give a beauty and a light
To the most desolate moments, like the glow
Of a bright fireside in the wildest day ;
And kindly words and offices of good
Shall wait upon thy steps, as thou goest on,
Where God shall lead thee, till thou reach the gates
Of a more genial season, and thy path
Be lost to human eye among the bowers
And living fountains of a brighter land.
Wm. C. Bryant.
A CHRISTMAS STORY FOR
GRANDFATHER.
By CHARLES DICKENS.
NCE upon a time, a good many years
11 a g°? there was a traveller, and he set
out upon a journey. It was a magic
journey, and was to seem very long
when he began it, and very short when he got
half-way through.
He travelled along a rather dark path for some
little time, without meeting anything, until at last
he came to a beautiful child. So he said to the
child, " What do you here ? ' And the child said,
" lam always at play. Come and play with me ! '
So, he played with that child the whole day
long, and they were very merry. The sky was
so blue, the sun was so bright, the water was so
sparkling, the leaves were so green, the flowers
were so lovely, and they heard such singing-birds,
and saw so many butterflies, that everything was
beautiful. This was in fine weather. When it
S4 A CHRISTMAS STORY
rained, they loved to watch the falling drops and
to smell the fresh scents. When it blew, it was
delightful to listen to the wind, and fancy what it
said, as it came rushing from its home — where
was that, they wondered ! — whistling and howl-
ing, and driving the clouds before it, bending the
trees, rumbling in the chimneys, shaking the house,
and making the sea roar in fury. But when it
snowed, that was the best of all ; for they liked
nothing so well as to look up at the white flakes
falling fast and thick, like down from the breasts
of millions of white birds ; and to see how smooth
and deep the drift was, and to listen to the hush
upon the paths and roads.
They had plenty of the finest toys in the world,
and the most astonishing picture-books, all about
scimitars and slippers and turbans, and dwarfs and
giants, and genii and fairies, and blue-beards and
bean-stalks, and riches, and caverns and forests,
and Valentines and Orsons : and all new and all
true.
But one day, of a sudden, the traveller lost the
child. He called to him over and over again, but
got no answer. So, he went upon his road, and
went on for a little while without meeting any-
thing, until at last he came to a handsome boy.
So, he said to the boy, " What do you here ? "
And the boy said, " I am always learning. Come
and learn with me."
So he learned with that boy about Jupiter and
FOR GRANDFATHER. ^
Juno, and the Greeks and the Romans, and I
don't know what, and learned more than I could
tell, — or he either ; for he soon forgot a great
deal of it. But they were not always learning ;
they had the merriest games that ever were played.
They rowed upon the river in summer, and skated
on the ice in winter ; they were active afoot, and
active on horseback ; at cricket, and all games at
ball ; at prisoners' base, hare and hounds, follow
my leader, and more sports than I can think of;
nobody could beat them. They had holidays, too,
and Twelfth cakes, and parties where they danced
all night till midnight, and real theatres, where
they saw palaces of real gold and silver rise out
of the real earth, and saw all the wonders of the
world at once. As to friends, they had such dear
friends, and so many of them, that I want the time
to reckon them up. They were all young, like the
handsome boy, and were never to be strange to
one another all their lives through.
Still, one day, in the midst of all these pleasures,
the traveller lost the boy, as he had lost the child,
and, after calling on him in vain, went on upon
his journey. So he went on for a little while
without seeing anything, until at last he came to
a young man. So, he said to the young man,
" What do you here ? " And the young man
said, " I am always in love. Come and love with
me."
So, he went away with that young man, and
56 A CHRISTMAS STORY
presently they came to one of the prettiest girls
that ever was seen, — just like Fanny in the corner
there, — and she had eyes like Fanny, and hair
like Fanny, and dimples like Fanny's, and she
laughed and colored just as Fanny does while I
am talking about her. So, the young man fell in
love directly, — just as Somebody I won't mention,
the first time he came here, did with Fanny.
Well! He was teased sometimes, — just as Some-
body used to be by Fanny ; and they quarrelled
sometimes, — just as Somebody and Fanny used
to quarrel ; and they made it up, and sat in the
dark, and wrote letters every day, and never
were happy asunder, and were always looking
out for one another, and pretending not to, and
were engaged at Christmas time, and sat close to
one another by the fire, and were going to be
married very soon, — all exactly like Somebody I
won't mention and Fanny !
But the traveller lost them one day, as he had
lost the rest of his friends, and, after calling to
them to come back, which they never did, went
on upon his journey. So, he went on for a little
while without seeing anything, until at last he
came to a middle-aged gentleman. So, he said to
the gentleman, "What are you doing here?'
And his answer was, " I am always busy. Come
and be busy with me ! "
So, then he began to be very busy with that
gentleman, and they went on through the wood
FOR GRANDFATHER. 57
together. The whole journey was through a
wood, only it had been open and green at first,
like a wood in spring ; and now began to be thick
and dark, like a wood in summer ; some of the
little trees that had come out earliest were even
turning brown. The gentleman was not alone,
but had a lady of about the same age with him,
who was his wife : and they had children, who
were with them too. So, they all went on to-
gether through the wood, cutting down the trees,
and making a path through the branches and the
fallen leaves, and carrying burdens, and working
hard.
Sometimes they came to a long green avenue
that opened into deeper woods. Then they would
hear a very little distant voice crying, " Father,
father, I am another child ! Stop for me ! '
And presently they would see a very little figure,
growing larger as it came along, running to join
them. When it came up, they all crowded
round it, and kissed and welcomed it ; and then
they all went on together.
Sometimes they came to several avenues at
once ; and then they all stood still, and one of the
children said, " Father, I am going to sea " ; and
another said, " Father, I am going to India " ; and
another, " Father, I am going to seek my fortune
where I can " ; and another, " Father, I am going
to heaven ! " So, with many tears at parting,
they went, solitary, down those avenues, each
3*
58 ^ CHRISTMAS STORY
child upon its way; and the child who went to
heaven, rose into the golden air and vanished.
Whenever these partings happened, the traveller
looked at the gentleman, and saw him glance up
at the sky above the trees, where the day was
beginning to decline, and the sunset to come on.
He saw, too, that his hair was turning gray. But
they never could rest long, for they had their jour-
ney to perform, and it was necessary for them to
be always busy.
At last, there had been so many partings that
there were no children left, and only the traveller,
the gentleman, and the lady went upon their way
in company. And now the wood was yellow ;
and now brown ; and the leaves, even of the
forest-trees, began to fall.
So they came to an avenue that was darker
than the rest, and were pressing forward on their
journey without looking down it, when the lady
stopped.
" My husband," said the lady, " I am called."
They listened, and they heard a voice a long
way down the avenue say, " Mother, mother ! "
It was the voice of the first child who had said,
" 1 am going to heaven ! " and the father said,
" I pray not yet. The sunset is very near. I
pray not yet."
But the voice cried, " Mother, mother ! " with-
out minding him, though his hair was now quite
white, and tears were on his face.
Then, the mother, who was already drawn into
FOR GRANDFATHER. 59
the shade of the dark avenue, and moving away
with her arms still around his neck, kissed him arid
said, u My dearest, I am summoned, and I go ! "
And she was gone. And the traveller and he
were left alone together.
And they went on and on together, until they
came to very near the end of the wood ; so near,
that they could see the sunset shining red before
them through the trees.
Yet, once more, while he broke his way among
the branches, the traveller lost his friend. He
called and called, but there was no reply, and
when he passed out of the wood and saw the
peaceful sun going down upon a wide purple pros-
pect, he came to an old man sitting upon a fallen
tree. So, he said to the old man, " What do
you here ? ' And the old man said, with a calm
smile, " I am always remembering. Come and
remember with me."
So, the traveller sat down by the side of the old
man, face to face with the serene sunset ; and all
his friends came softly back and stood around him.
The beautiful child, the handsome boy, the young
man in love, the father, mother, and children :
every one of them was there, and he had lost
nothing. So, he loved them all, and was kind and
forbearing with them all, and was always pleased
to watch them all, and they all honored and loved
him. And I think the traveller must be yourself,
dear grandfather, because it is what you do to us,
and what we do to you.
JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO.
By ROBERT BURNS.
JOHN ANDERSON, my jo, John,
When we were first acquent,
Your locks were like the raven,
Your bonnie brow was brent * ;
But now your head 's turned bald, John
Your locks are like the snow ;
But blessings on your frosty pow,
John Anderson, my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John,
We clamb the hill thegither ;
And mony a canty f day, John,
We 've had wi' ane anither :
Now we maun totter down, John,
But hand in hand we '11 go,
And sleep thegither at the foot,
John Anderson, my jo.
"When thoughtful people sing these admirable verses, they are
apt to long to hear of something beyond the foot of the 4 hill.
This want has been extremely well supplied by Mr. Charles
Gould, of New York, in the following verse : —
* Smooth. t Merry.
JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO. 61
John Anderson, my jo, John,
When we have slept thegither
The sleep that a' maun sleep, John,
We '11 wake wi' ane anither :
And in that better warld, John,
Nae sorrow shall we know ;
Nor fear we e'er shall part again,
John Anderson, my jo.
OLD FOLKS AT HOME.
More pleasant seem their own surroundings,
Though quaint and old,
Than newer homes, with their aboundings
Of marble, silk, and gold.
For 't is the heart inspires home-feelings,
In hut or hall,
Where memory, with its fond revealings,
Sheds a tender light o'er all.
They love the wonted call to meeting,
By their old bell ;
They love the old familiar greeting
From friends who know them well.
Their homesick hearts are always yearning,
When they 're away ;
And ever is their memory turning
To scenes where they used to stay.
L. M. C.
EVERLASTING YOUTH.
By Rev. EDMUND H. SEARS.*
LD age, in some of its aspects, is a
most interesting and solemn mystery,
though to the outward eye it is mere-
pplpi? ly the gradual waning and extinction
of existence. All the faculties fold themselves up
to a long, last sleep. First, the senses begin to
close, and lock in the soul from the outward world.
The hearing is generally the first to fail, shutting
off the mind from the tones of affection and of
melody. The sight fails next ; and the pictures
of beauty, on the canvas spread round us morn-
ing and evening, become blurred. The doors and
windows are shut toward the street. The invasion
keeps on steadily toward the seat of life. The
images of the memory lose their outline, run
together, and at last melt away into darkness.
Now and then, by a special effort, rents are made,
in the clouds, and we see a vista opening through
* From Foregleams of Immortality.
EVERLASTING YOUTH. 63
the green glades of other years. But the edges
of the cloud soon close again. It settles down
more densely than ever, and all the past is blotted
out. Then the reason fails, and the truths it had
elaborated flicker and are extinguished. Only the
affections remain. Happy for us, if these also
have not become soured or chilled. It is our be-
lief, however, that these may be preserved in their
primitive freshness and glow ; and that in the old
age where the work of regeneration is consum-
mating, the affections are always preserved bright
and sweet, like roses of Eden, occupying a charmed
spot in the midst of snows. In old age, men gen-
erally seem to have grown either better or worse.
The reason is, that the internal life is then more
revealed, and its spontaneous workings are more
fully manifested. The intellectual powers are no
longer vigilant to control the expression of the in-
ternal feelings, and so the heart is generally laid
open. What we call the moroseness and peevish-
ness of age is none other than the real disposition,
no longer hedged in, and kept in decency, by the
intellect, but coming forth without disguise. So
again, that beautiful simplicity and infantile meek-
ness, sometimes apparent in old age, beaming
forth, like the dawn of the coming heaven, through
all the relics of natural decay, are the spontaneous
effusions of sanctified affections. There is, there-
fore, a good and a bad sense, in which we speak
of the second childhood. Childhood is the state
64 EVERLASTING YOUTH.
of spontaneity. In the first childhood, before the
intellect is formed, the heart answers truly to all
impressions from without ; as the iEolian harp
answers to every touch of the breeze. In the
second childhood, after the intellect is broken
down, the same phenomenon comes round again ;
and in it you read the history of all the interven-
ing years. What those years have done for the
regeneration of the soul will appear, now that its
inmost state is translucent, no longer concealed by
the expediencies learned of intellectual prudence.
When the second childhood is true and genial,
the work of regeneration approaches its consum-
mation ; and the light of heaven is reflected from
silver hairs, as if one stood nearer to Paradise, and
caught reflections of the resurrection glories.
But alas ! is this all that is left of us, amid
the memorials of natural decay ? Senses, memory,
reason, all blotted out, in succession, and instinc-
tive affection left alone to its spontaneous workings,
like a solitary flower breathing its fragrance upon
snows ? And how do we know but this, too, will
close up its leaves, and fall before the touch of the
invader ? Then the last remnant of the man is no
more. Or, if otherwise, must so many souls enter
upon their immortality denuded of everything but
the heart's inmost and ruling love ?
How specious and deceptive are natural appear-
ances ! What seemed to the outward eye the wan-
ing of existence, and the loss of faculties, is only
EVERLASTING YOUTH. 65
locking them up successively, in order to keep
them more secure. Old age, rather than death,
answers strictly to the analogies of sleep. It is the
gradual folding in and closing up of all the volun-
tary powers, after they have become worn and
tired, that they may wake again refreshed and
renovated for the higher work that awaits them.
The psychological evidence is pretty full and deci-
sive, that old age is sleep, but not decay. The
reason lives, though its eye is temporarily closed ;
and some future day it will give a more perfect
and pliant form to the affections. Memory re-
mains, though its functions are suspended for a
while. All its chambers may be exhumed here-
after, and their frescoes, like those of the buried
temples at Meroe, will be found preserved in un-
fading colors. The ivhole record of our life is laid
up within us ; and only the overlayings of the
physical man prevent the record from being always
visible. The years leave their debris successively
upon the spiritual nature, till it seems buried and
lost beneath the layers. On the old man's memory
every period seems to have obliterated a former
one ; but the life which he has lived can no more
be lost to him, or destroyed, than the rock-strata
can be destroyed by being buried under layers of
sand. In those hours when the bondage of the
senses is less firm, and the life within has freer
motion ; or, in those hours of self-revelation, which
are sometimes experienced under a clearer and
E
66 EVEBLASTING YOUTH.
more pervading light from above, — the past with-
draws its veil ; and we see, rank beyond rank, as
along the rows of an expanding amphitheatre, the
images of successive years, called out as by some
wand of enchantment. There are abundant facts,
which go to prove that the decline and forgetful-
ness of years are nothing more than the hardening
of the mere envelopment of the man, shutting in the
inmost life, which merely waits the hour to break
away from its bondage.
De Quincey says : " I am assured that there is
no such thing as forgetting possible to the mind.
A thousand circumstances may and will interpose
a veil between our present consciousness and the
secret inscriptions of the mind ; but alike, whether
veiled or unveiled, the inscription remains forever ;
just as the stars seem to withdraw from the com-
mon light of day ; whereas, we all know that it is
the light which is drawn over them, as a veil, and
that they are waiting to be revealed, when the
obscuring daylight shall have withdrawn."
The resurrection is the exact inverse of natural
decay ; and the former is preparing ere the latter
has ended. The affections, being the inmost life,
are the nucleus of the whole man. They are the
creative and organiflc centre, whence are formed
the reason and the memory, and thence their em-
bodiment in the more outward form of members
and organs. The whole interior mechanism is
complete in the chrysalis, ere the wings, spotted
EVERLASTING YOUTH. 67
with light, are fluttering in the zephyrs of morn-
ing. St. Paul, who, in this connection, is speak-
ing specially of the resurrection of the just, pre-
sents three distinct points of contrast between
the natural body and the spiritual. One is weak,
the other is strong. One is corruptible, the other
is incorruptible. One is without honor, the other
is glorious. By saying that one is natural, and
the other spiritual, he certainly implies that one is
better adapted than the other to do the functions
of spirit, and more perfectly to organize and man-
ifest its powers. How clearly conceivable then is
it that when man becomes free of the coverings of
mere natural decay, he comes into complete pos-
session of all that he is, and all that he has ever
lived ; that leaf after leaf in our whole book of life
is opened backward, and all its words and letters
come out in more vivid colors !
In the other life, therefore, appears the won-
derful paradox that the oldest people are the
youngest. To grow in age is to come into ever-
lasting youth. To become old in years is
to put on the freshness of perpetual
prime. We drop from us the de-
bris of the past, we breathe the
ether of immortality, and
our cheeks mantle
with eternal
bloom.
LIFE.
The following lines were by Mrs. Anna Letitia Barbauld, an
English writer of great merit, extensively known as the author
of excellent Hymns, and Early Lessons for Children. She was
born in 1743, and lived to be nearly eighty-two years old. She
employed the latter part of her life in editing a series of the best
English novels and essays, accompanied with biographical sketches
of the authors ; and compositions in prose and verse continued
to be her favorite occupation to the last.
LIFE ! I know not what thou art,
But know that thou and I must part ;
And when, or how, or where we met,
I own to me 's a secret yet.
Life ! we have been long together,
Through pleasant and through cloudy weather.
'T is hard to part when friends are dear ;
Perhaps 't will cost a sigh, a tear.
Then steal away ; give little warning ;
Choose thine own time ;
Say not Good Night ; but in some brighter clime
Bid me Good Morning !
THE MYSTERIOUS PILGRIMAGE.
By L. MARIA CHILD.
nV^-W ^.
'$£$) HERE was a traveller who set out
upon a new road, not knowing whith-
er it would lead him, nor whence he
gpift eame, for he had been conveyed thither
blindfold, and the bandage had been removed in
his sleep. When he woke up he found himself
among all sorts of pretty novelties, and he ran
about hither and thither, eagerly asking, " What
is this ? " " What is that ? " His activity was
untiring. He tried to catch everything he saw,
and hold it fast in his hand. But humming-birds
whirred in his ears, and as soon as he tried to
grasp them they soared up out of his reach, and
left him gazing at their burnished throats glisten-
ing in the sunshine. Daintily painted butterflies
poised themselves on such lowly flowers, that he
thought he had but to stoop and take them ; but
they also floated away as soon as he approached.
He walked through stately groves, where the
70 THE MYSTERIOUS PILGRIMAGE.
sunshine was waltzing with leaf-shadows, and he
tried to pick up the airy little dancers. " They
won't let me catch 'em ! " he exclaimed, petulantly.
But on he hurried in pursuit of a squirrel, which
ran nimbly away from him up into a tree, and
there he sat on the high boughs, flourishing his
pretty tail in the air. And so the traveller went
along the wondrous road, always trying for some-
thing he could n't catch, not knowing; that the
pleasure was in the pursuit.
As he went on, the path widened and grew
more attractive. Birds of radiant colors flitted
about, and filled the air with charming variations
of melody. Trees threw down showers of blos-
soms as he passed, and beneath his feet was a car-
pet of emerald-colored velvet, embroidered with a
profusion of golden stars. Better than all, troops
of handsome young men and lovely maidens joined
him, all put blindfolded into the road, and travel-
ling they knew not whither. And now they all set
out upon a race after something higher up than
squirrels or butterflies could go. " Look there !
Look there ! See what is before us ! " they ex-
claimed. And lo ! they all saw, away beyond, on
hills of fleecy cloud, the most beautiful castles !
The walls were of pearl, and rainbow pennons
waved from the gold-pointed turrets. " We will
take possession of those beautiful castles ! That
is where we are going to live ! " they shouted to
each other ; and on they ran in pursuit of the
THE MYSTERIOUS PILGRIMAGE. 71
rainbows. But they often paused in the chase, to
frolic together. They laughed, and sang merry
songs, and pelted each other with flowers, and
danced within a ring of roses. It was a beautiful
sight to see their silky ringlets tossed about by the
breeze, and shining in the sunlight. But the game
they liked best was looking into each other's eyes.
They said they could see a blind boy there, with
a bow and arrow ; and always they were playing
bo-peep with that blind boy, who was n't so blind
as he seemed ; for whenever he aimed his arrow
at one of them, he was almost sure to hit. But
they said the arrow was wreathed with flowers,
and carried honey on its point ; and there was
nothing they liked quite so well as being shot at
by the blind boy.
Sometimes their sport was interrupted by some
stern-looking traveller, who said to them, in solemn
tones, u Why do you make such fools of your-
selves ? Do you know whither this road leads ? "
Then they looked at each other bewildered, and
said they did not. "I have been on this road
much longer than you have," he replied ; " and
I think it is my duty to turn back sometimes
and warn those who are coming after me. I tell
you this road, where you go dancing so care-
lessly, abounds with pitfalls, generally concealed
by flowers ; and it ends in an awful, deep, dark
hole. You are all running, like crazy fools, af-
ter rainbow castles in the air. You will never
72 THE MYSTERIOUS PILGRIMAGE.
come up with them. They will vanish and leave
nothing but a great black cloud. But what you
have most to fear is a cruel giant, who is sure to
meet you somewhere on the road. Nobody ever
knows where ; for he is invisible. Whatever he
touches with his dart turns first to marble and
then to ashes. You ought to be thinking of him
and his dreadful arrow, instead of the foolish
archer that you call the blind boy. Instead of
chattering about roses and rainbows, you ought
to be thinking of the awful black pit at the end
of the road."
His words chilled the young men and maidens,
like wind from a cavern. They looked at each
other thoughtfully, and said, " Why does he try
to spoil our sport with stories of pitfalls and invisi-
ble giants ? We don't know where the pitfalls
are ; and if we go poking on the ground for them,
how can we see the sunshine and the birds ? '
Some of the more merry began to laugh at the
solemn traveller, and soon they were all dancing
again, or hurrying after the rainbow castles. They
threw roses at each other by the way ; and often
the little blind archer was in the heart of the
roses, and played them mischievous tricks. They
laughed merrily, and said to each other, " This is
a beautiful road. It is a pity old Howlit don't
know how to enjoy it."
But as our traveller passed on his way, he
found that the words of the lugubrious prophet
THE MYSTERIOUS PILGRIMAGE. 73
were sometimes verified. Now and then some
of his companions danced into pitfalls covered with
flowers. He himself slipped several times, but
recovered his balance, and said it would teach him
to walk more carefully. Others were bruised and
faint in consequence of falls, and made no effort
to rise up. In the kindness of his heart, he would
not leave them thus ; but always he tried to cheer
them, saying, " Up, and try again, my brother !
You won't make the same mistake again." Cheer-
ful and courageous as he was, however, he saw the
rainbow castles gradually fading from his vision ;
but they did not leave a great black cloud, as the
solemn traveller had foretold ; they melted into
mild and steady sunlight. The young men and
maidens, who had frolicked with him, went off in
pairs, some into one bypath, some into another.
Hand in hand with our traveller went a gentle
companion, named Mary, in whose eyes he had
long been playing at bo-peep with the blind boy.
When they talked of this, they said they could
still see him in each other's eye-mirrors, but now
he had put his arrows into the quiver, and was
stringing pearls. Mary brought little children
to her companion, and they were more charming
than all the playthings of their former time. They
gazed fondly into the eyes of the little strangers,
and said, " We see angels in these azure depths,
and they are lovelier than the blind boy ever
was." They played no more with roses now, but
4
74 THE MYSTERIOUS PILGRIMAGE.
gathered ripe fruits, glowing like red and purple
jewels, and planted grain which grew golden in
the sunshine. Companions with whom they had
parted by the w T ay occasionally came into their
path again, as they journeyed on. Their moods
were various, according to their experiences.
Some still talked joyfully of the ever-varying beau-
ty of the road. Others sighed deeply, and said
they had found nothing to console them for
withered roses, and rainbows vanished. Some-
times, when inquiries were made about former
acquaintances, the answer was that the invisible
giant had touched them, and they had changed to
marble. Then a shadow seemed to darken the
pleasant road, and they spoke to each other in low
tones. Some of those who sighed over withered
roses, told of frightful things done by this invisible
giant, and of horrid places whither they had heard
he conveved his victims. To children who were
chasing butterflies, and to young men and maidens
who were twining rose-wreaths, they said, " You
ought not to be wasting your time with such friv-
olous pastimes ; you ought to be thinking of the
awful invisible one, who is near us when we least
think of it." They spoke in lugubrious tones, as
the solemn traveller had aforetime spoken to them.
But our traveller, who was cheerful of heart, said :
"It is not kind to throw a shadow across their
sunshine. Let them enjoy themselves." And his
Mary asked whether He who made the beautiful
' THE MYSTERIOUS PILGRIMAGE. 75
road had wasted time when He made the roses
and the butterflies ? And why had He made
them, if they were not to be enjoyed ?
But clouds sometimes came over this sunshine
of their souls. One of the little cherub boys
whom Mary had brought to her companion re-
ceived the invisible touch, and became as marble.
Then a shadow fell across their path, and went
with them as they walked. They pressed each
other's hands in silence, but the thought was ever
in their hearts, "Whom will he touch next?"
The little cherub was not in the marble form ; he
was still with them, though they knew it not.
Gradually their pain was softened, and they found
comfort in remembering his winning ways. Mary
said to her companion : " As we have travelled
along this mysterious road, the scenery has been
continually changing, even as we have changed.
But one form of beauty has melted into another,
so gently, so imperceptibly, that we have been
unconscious of the change, until it had passed.
Where all is so full of blessing, dearest, it cannot
be that this invisible touch is an exception." The
traveller sighed, and merely answered, "It is a
great mystery " ; but her words fell on his heart
like summer dew on thirsty flowers. They
thought of the cherub boy, who had disappeared
from their vision, and the tears dropped slowly;
but as they fell, a ray of light from heaven kissed
them and illumined them with rainbows. They
76 THE MYSTERIOUS PILGRIMAGE.
clasped each other's hands more closely, and trav-
elled on. Sometimes they smiled at each other,
as they looked on their remaining little ones,
running hither and thither chasing the bright but-
terflies. And Mary, who was filled with gentle
wisdom, said, " The butterfly was once a crawling
worm ; but when it became stiff and cold, there
emerged from it this winged creature, clothed with
beauty." He pressed her hand tenderly ; for
again her soothing words fell upon his heart like
dew on thirsty flowers.
Thus lovingly they passed on together, and
manv a blessing followed them ; for whenever a
traveller came along who was burdened and weary,
they cheered him with hopeful words and helped
to carry his load ; and ever as they did so a softer
light shone upon the landscape and bathed all
things with a luminous glory. And still the scene
was changing, ever changing. The glowing fruit
had disappeared, and the golden grain was gath-
ered. But now the forest-trees were all aglow,
and looked like great pyramids of gorgeous flow-
ers. The fallen foliage of the pines formed a soft
carpet under their feet, ornamented with the shad-
ed brown of cones and acorns, and sprinkled
with gold-tinted leaves from the trees. As they
looked on the mellowed beauty of the scenery,
Mary said : " The Being who fashioned us, and
created this marvellous road for us to travel
in, must be wondrously wise and loving. How
THE MYSTERIOUS PILGRIMAGE. 77
gradually and gently all things grow, and pass
through magical changes. When we had had
enough of chasing butterflies, the roses came to
bind us together in fragrant wreaths. When the
roses withered, the grain-fields waved beautifully in
the wind, and purple and yellow grapes hung from
the vines, like great clusters of jewels. And now,
when fruit and grain are gathered, the forests are
gorgeous in the sunlight, like immense beds of
tulips. A friendly ' Good morning ' to something
new, mingles ever with the 4 Good night, beloved,'
to something that is passing away. Surely, dear-
est, this road, so full of magical transformations,
must lead us to something more beautiful than
itself." The traveller uncovered his head, raised
his eyes reverently toward heaven, and said : " It
is a great mystery. O Father, give us faith ! "
Before the glowing tints departed from the trees,
Mary's cheek grew pale, and the light of her eyes
began to fade. Then the traveller shuddered and
shivered ; for a great shadow came between him
and the sunshine ; he felt the approach of the in-
visible. More and more closely he pressed the
beloved companion, to warm her with his heart.
But her mild eyes closed, and the graceful form
became as marble. No more could he look into
those serene depths, where he had first seen the
blind boy shooting his arrows, afterward stringing
pearls, and then as an angel twining amaranthine
crowns. In the anguish of his desolation, he
78 THE MYSTERIOUS PILGRIMAGE.
groaned aloud, and exclaimed : " thou Dread
Destroyer ! take me, too ! I cannot live alone !
I cannot ! " A gentle voice whispered, " Thou
art not alone, dearest. I am still with thee ! " but
in the tumult of his grief he heard it not. The
children Marv had given him twined their soft
arms about his neck, and said : " Do not leave us
alone ! We cannot find our way, without thee to
guide us." For their sakes, he stifled his groans,
and knelt down and prayed, '.' O Father, give me
strength and faith ! "
Patiently he travelled on, leading the children.
By degrees they joined themselves to companions,
and went off in pairs into new paths, as he and his
Mary had done. The scenery around him grew
more dreary. The black branches of the trees
stood- in gloomy relief against a cold gray sky.
The beautiful fields of grain ripening in the sun-
shine had changed to dry stubble fluttering mourn-
fully in the wind. But Nature, loath to part with
Beauty, still wore a few red berries, as a necklace
among her rags, and trimmed her scanty garments
with evergreen. But the wonderful transforma-
tions had not ceased. The fluttering brown rags
suddenly changed to the softest ermine robe, flash-
ing with diamonds, and surmounted by a resplen-
dent silver crown. The magical change reminded
our traveller that his lost companion had said,
" Surely a road so full of beautiful changes must
lead to something more beautiful than itself."
Again he knelt in reverence, and said, " All
THE MYSTERIOUS PILGRIMAGE. 79
things around me are miraculous. O Father,
give me faith ! "
The road descended into a deep valley, ever
more narrow and dark. The nights grew longer.
The ground was rugged and frozen, and the rough
places hurt the pilgrim's stiff and weary feet. But
when he was joined by pilgrims more exhausted
than himself, he spoke to them in words of good
cheer, and tried to help them over the rough
places. The sunshine was no longer warm and
golden, but its silvery light was still beautiful, and
through the leafless boughs of the trees the moon
and the stars looked down serenely on him. The
children whom he had guided sometimes came and
sang sweetly to him ; and sometimes, when he was
listening in the stillness, he seemed to hear myste-
rious echoes within himself, as if from a musical
chime of bells on the other side of a river.
The shudderings and shiverings he had felt in
presence of the cold shadow became more frequent ;
and he said to himself, " The Dread Destroyer is
approaching more and more near." With trem-
bling hands he uncovered his snow-white head,
and looking upward, he said, " It is a fearful
mystery. G Father, give me faith ! " Praying
thus, he sank on the cold ground, and sleepiness
came over him. He felt something gently raising
him, and slowly opening his eyes, he said, " Who
art thou ? " The stranger answered, " I am that
Dread Destroyer, whose shadow always made thee
shudder."
80 THE MYSTERIOUS PILGRIMAGE.
" Thou ! ' exclaimed the tired pilgrim, in tones
of joyful surprise ; " why thou art an angel ! "
" Yes, I am an angel," he replied ; " and none
but I can lead thee to thy loved ones. Thy
Heavenly Father has sent me to take thee home."
Gratefully the weary one sank into the arms of
the giant he had so much dreaded. " All things
are ordered in love," he said. " Thy touch is
friendly, and thy voice like music."
They passed a narrow bridge over a dark river.
On the other side was a flowery arch, bearing the
motto, "The Gate of Life." Within it stood
Mary and her cherub-boy, shining in transfigured
light. The child stretched out his hands for an
embrace, and Mary's welcoming smile was more
beautiful than it had ever been in the happy old
time of roses and rainbows. " This is only one
more of the magical transformations, my beloved,"
she said. " It is as I told thee. The beautiful,
mysterious road leads to something far more beau-
tiful than itself. Come and see ! " With tender
joy he kissed her and the angel child. There was
a sound of harps and voices above him, singing,
" The shadow has departed ! " And a cheerful re-
sponse came from well-remembered voices he had
left behind him on the road : " We are coming !
We are coming ! " Through all the chambers
of his soul went ringing the triumphant chorus,
" The shadow has departed ! " with the cheerful
response, " We are coming ! We are coming ! "
THE HAPPIEST TIME.
By ELIZA COOK.
AN old man sat in his chimney-seat,
As the morning sunbeam crept to his feet ;
And he watched the Spring light as it came
With wider ray on his window frame.
He looked right on to the Eastern sky,
But his breath grew long in a trembling sigh,
And those who heard it wondered much
What Spirit hand made him feel its touch.
For the old man was not one of the fair
And sensitive plants in earth's parterre ;
His heart was among the senseless things,
That rarely are fanned by the honey-bee's wings ;
It bore no film of delicate pride,
No dew of emotion gathered inside ;
O, that old man's heart was of hardy kind,
That seemeth to heed not the sun or the wind.
He had lived in the world as millions live,
Ever more ready to take than give ;
4*
82 THE HAPPIEST TIME.
He had worked and wedded, and murmured and blamed,
And just paid to the fraction what honesty claimed;
He had driven his bargains and counted his gold,
Till upwards of threescore years were told ;
And his keen blue eye held nothing to show
That feeling had ever been busy below.
The old man sighed again, and hid
His keen blue eye beneath its lid ;
And his wrinkled forehead, bending down,
Was knitting itself in a painful frown.
" I 've been looking back," the old man said,
On every spot where my path has laid,
Over every year my brain can trace,
To find the happiest time and place."
" And where and when," cried one by his side,
" Have you found the brightest wave in your tide ?
Come tell me freely, and let me learn,
How the spark was struck that yet can burn.
"Was it when you stood in stalwart strength,
With the blood of youth, and felt that at length
Your stout right arm could win its bread?"
The old man quietly shook his head.
" Then it must have been when love had come,
With a faithful bride to glad your home ;
Or when the first-born cooed and smiled,
And your bosom cradled its own sweet child ;
Or was it when that first-born joy,
Grew up to your hope, — a brave, strong boy, —
And promised to fill the world in your stead ? "
The old man quietly shook his head.
THE HAPPIEST TIME. 83
" Say, was it then when fortune brought
The round sum you had frugally sought ?
Was the year the happiest that beheld
The vision of poverty all dispelled?
Or was it when you still had more,
And found you could boast a goodly store
With labor finished and plenty spread ? "
The old, man quietly shook his head.
" Ah, no ! ah, no ! it was longer ago,"
The old man muttered, — sadly and low !
" It was when I took my lonely way
To the lonely woods in the month of May.
When the Spring light fell as it falleth now,
With the bloom on the sod and the leaf on the bough ;
When I tossed up my cap at the nest in the tree ;
O, that was the happiest time for me.
" When I used to leap and laugh and shout,
Though I never knew what my joy was about ;
And something seemed to warm my breast,
As I sat on a mossy bank to rest.
That was the time ; when I used to roll
On the blue-bells that covered the upland knoll,
And I never could tell why the thought should be,
But I fancied the flowers talked to me.
" Well I remember climbing to reach
A squirrel brood rocked on the top of a beech ;
Well I remember the lilies so sweet,
That I toiled with back to the city street ;
Yes, that was the time, — the happiest time, —
When I went to the woods in their May-day prime."
84 THE HAPPIEST TIME.
And the old man breathed with a longer sigh,
And the lid fell closer over his eye.
O, who would have thought this hard old man
Had room in his heart for such rainbow span ?
Who would have deemed that wild copse flowers
Were tenderly haunting his latest hours ?
But what did the old man's spirit tell,
In confessing it loved the woods so well ?
What do we learn from the old man's sigh,
But that Nature and Poetry cannot die ?
ODE OF ANACREON.
TRANSLATED FROM THE GREEK.
The women tell me, every day,
That all my bloom has passed away.
" Behold ! " the lively lasses cry,
Behold this mirror with a sigh !
Old wintry Time has shed his snows,
And bald and bare your forehead shows/
I will not either think or care
Whether old Time has thinned my hair ;
But this I know and this I feel,
As years advancing on me steal,
And ever bring the end more near,
The joys of life become more dear ;
And had I but one hour to live,
That hour to cheerfulness I 'd give.
CICERO'S ESSAY ON OLD AGE.
The following extracts arc from a discourse "De Senectute,"
by Cicero, the world-renowned Roman orator, who was born one
hundred and six years before Christ. He is one among many
pleasant proofs that God never leaves himself without a witness in
the hearts of men, in any age or country. Cicero says : " I have
represented these reflections as delivered by the venerable Cato ;
but in delivering his sentiments, I desire to be understood as fully
declaring my own."
|) HOSE who have no internal resources
of happiness will find themselves un-
easy in every stage of human life ; but
8£ to him who is accustomed to derive
happiness from within himself, no state will appear
as a real evil into which he is conducted by the
common and regular course of Nature ; and this
is peculiarly the case with respect to old age. I
follow Nature, as the surest guide, and resign
myself with implicit obedience to her sacred ordi-
nances. After having wisely distributed peculiar
and proper enjoyments to all the preceding periods
of life, it cannot be supposed that she would neg-
86 ESSAY ON OLD AGE.
lect the last, and leave it destitute of suitable
advantages. After a certain point of maturity
is attained, marks of decay must necessarily ap-
pear ; but to this unavoidable condition of his
present being every wise and good man will sub-
mit with contented and cheerful acquiescence.
Nothing can be more void of foundation than
the assertion that old age necessarily disquali-
fies a man for taking part in the great affairs of
the world. If an old man cannot perform in busi-
ness a part which requires the bodily strength and
energy of more vigorous years, he can act in a
nobler and more important character. Moment-
ous affairs of state are not conducted by corporeal
strength and activity ; they require cool delibera-
tion, prudent counsel, and authoritative influence ;
qualifications which are strengthened and improved
by increase of years. Few among mankind arrive
at old age ; and this suggests a reason why the
affairs of the world are not better conducted ; for
age brings experience, discretion, and judgment,
without which no well-formed government could
have been established, or can be maintained. Ap-
pius Claudius was not only old but blind, when he
remonstrated in the Senate, with so much force
and spirit, against concluding a peace with Pyr-
rhus. The celebrated General Quintus Maximus
led our troops to battle in his old age, with as
much spirit as if he had been in the prime and
vigor of life. It was by his advice and eloquence,
ESSAY ON OLD AGE. 87
when lie was extremely old, that the Cincian law
concerning donatives was enacted. And it was
not merely in the conspicuous paths of the world
that this excellent man was truly great. He ap-
peared still greater in the private and domestic
scenes of life. There was a dignity in his deport-
ment, tempered with singular politeness and affa-
bility ; and time wrought no alteration in his
amiable qualities. How pleasing and instructive
was his conversation ! How profound his knowl-
edge of antiquity and the laws ! His memory was
so retentive, that there was no event of any note,
connected with our public affairs, with which he
was not well acquainted. I eagerly embraced
every opportunity to enjoy his society, feeling that
after his death I should never again meet with so
wise and improving a companion.
But it is not necessary to be a hero or a states-
man, in order to lead an easy and agreeable old
age. That season of life may prove equally serene
and pleasant to him who has passed his days in the
retired paths of learning. It is urged that old age
impairs the memory. It may have that effect on
those in whom memory was originally infirm, or
who have not preserved its native vigor by exer-
cising it properly. But the faculties of the mind
will preserve their power in old age, unless they
are suffered to become languid for want of due
cultivation. Caius Gallus employed himself to the
very last moments of his long life in measuring the
88 ESSAY ON OLD AGE.
distances of the heavenly orbs, and determining
the dimensions of this our earth. How often has
the sun risen on his astronomical calculations !
How frequently has night overtaken him in the
same elevated studies ! With what delight did
he amuse himself in predicting to us, long before
they happened, the several lunar and solar eclipses !
Other ingenious applications of the mind there
are, though of a lighter nature, which may greatly
contribute to enliven and amuse the decline of life.
Thus Noevius, in composing his poem on the Car-
thaginian war, and Plautus in writing his two last
comedies, filled up the leisure of their latter days
with wonderful complacency and satisfaction. I
can affirm the same of our dramatic poet Livius,
whom I remember to have seen in his old age ;
and let me not forget Marcus Cethegus, justly
st}ded the soul of eloquence, whom I likewise saw
in his old age exercising even his oratorical talents
with uncommon force and vivacity. All these old
men I saw pursuing their respective studies with
the utmost ardor and alacrity. Solon, in one of
his poems, written when he was advanced in
years, glories that he learned something every
day he lived. Plato occupied himself with philo-
sophical studies, till they were interrupted by
death at eighty-one years of age. Isocrates com-
posed his famous discourse when he was ninety-
four years old, and he lived five years afterward.
Sophocles continued to write tragedies when he
ESSAY ON OLD AGE. 89
was extremely old. Gray hair proved no obstacle
to the philosophic pursuits of Pythagoras, Zeno,
Cleanthes, or the venerable Diogenes. These
eminent persons persevered in their studies with
undiminished earnestness to the last moment of
their extended lives. Leontinus Gorgias, who
lived to be one hundred and seven years old, pur-
sued his studies with unremitting assiduity to the
last. When asked if he did not wish to rid him-
self of the burden of such prolonged years, he
replied, " I find no reason to complain of old age."
The statement that age impairs our strength is
not without foundation. But, after all, imbecility
of body is more frequently caused by youthful
irregularities than by the natural and unavoidable
consequences of long life. By temperance and
exercise, a man may secure to his old age no
inconsiderable degree of his former spirit and
activity. The venerable Lucius Metellus pre-
served such a florid old age to his last moments,
as to have no reason to lament the depredations of
time. If it must be acknowledged that time in-
evitably undermines physical strength, it is equally
true that great bodily vigor is not required in the
decline of life. A moderate degree of force is
sufficient for all rational purposes. I no more
regret the absence of youthful vigor, than when
young I lamented because I was not endowed with
the strength of a bull or an elephant. Old age
has, at least, sufficient strength remaining to train
90 ESSAY ON OLD AGE.
the rising generation, and instruct them in the
duties to winch they may hereafter be called ; and
certainly there cannot be a more important or a
more honorable occupation. There is satisfaction
in communicating every kind of useful knowledge ;
and it must render a man happy to employ the
faculties of his mind to so noble and beneficial a
purpose, how much soever time may have impaired
his bodily powers. Men of good sense, in the
evening of life, are generally fond of associating
with the younger part of the world, and, when
they discover amiable qualities in them, they find
it an alleviation of their infirmities to gain their
affection and esteem ; and well-inclined young
men think themselves equally happy to be guided
into the paths of knowledge and virtue by the in-
structions of experienced elders. I love to see the
fire of youth somewhat tempered by the sobriety
of age, and it is also pleasant to see the gravity of
age enlivened by the vivacity of youth. Whoever
combines these two qualities in his character will
never exhibit traces of senility in his mind, though
his body may bear the marks of years. -
As for the natural and necessary inconveniences
attendant upon length of years, we ought to coun-
teract their progress by constant and resolute
opposition. The infirmities of age should be re-
sisted like the approaches of disease. To this end
we should use regular and moderate exercise, and
merely eat and drink as much as is necessary to
ESSAY ON OLD AGE. 91
repair our strength, without oppressing the organs
of digestion. And the intellectual faculties, as
well as the physical, should be carefully assisted.
Mind and body thrive equally by suitable exercise
of their powers ; with this difference, however,
that bodilv exertion ends in fatigue, whereas the
mind is never wearied by its activity.
Another charge against old age is that it de-
prives us of sensual gratifications. Happy effect,
indeed, to be delivered from those snares which
allure youth into some of the worst vices ! " Rea-
son, " said Archytas, " is the noblest gift which
God or Nature has bestowed on men. Now
nothing is so great an enemy to that divine en-
dowment as the pleasures of sense ; for neither
temperance, nor any of the more exalted virtues,
can find a place in that breast which is under the
dominion of voluptuous passions. Imagine to
yourself a man in the actual enjoyment of the
highest gratifications mere animal nature is capable
of receiving ; there can be no doubt that during
his continuance in that state it would be utterly
impossible for him to exert any one power of his
rational faculties." The inference I draw from
this is, that if the principles of reason and virtue
have not proved sufficient to inspire us with
proper contempt for mere sensual pleasures, we
have cause to feel grateful to old age for at least
weaning us from appetites it would ill become us
to gratify ; for voluptuous passions are utter en-
92 ESSAY ON OLD AGE.
emies to all the nobler faculties of the soul ; they
hold no communion with the manly virtues ; and
they cast a mist before the eye of reason. The
little relish which old age leaves us for enjoy-
ments merely sensual, instead of being a disparage-
ment to that period of life, considerably enhances
its value. If age renders us incapable of taking
an equal share in the flowing cups and luxurious
dishes of wealthy tables, it thereby secures us
from painful indigestion, restless nights, and dis-
ordered reason.
But though his years will guard an old man
from excess, they by no means exclude him from
enjoying convivial gratifications in a moderate
degree. I always took singular satisfaction in the
anniversaries of those little societies called Con-
fraternities. But the gratification I received from
their entertainments arose much less from the
pleasures of the palate than from the opportuni-
ties they afforded for enjoying the company and
conversation of friends. I derive so much pleas-
ure from hours devoted to cheerful discourse, that
I love to prolong my meals, not only when the
company is composed of men of my own years,
few of whom indeed are now remaining, but also
when it chiefly consists of young persons. And I
acknowledge my obligations to old age for having
increased my passion for the pleasures of conver-
sation, while it has abated it for those which
depend solely on the palate ; though I do not find
ESSAY ON OLD AGE. 93
myself disqualified for that species of gratification,
also.
The advantages of age are inestimable, if we
consider it as delivering us from the tyranny of
lust and ambition, from angry and contentious
passions, from inordinate and irrational desires ; in
a word, as teaching us to retire within ourselves,
and look for happiness in our own souls. If to
these moral benefits, which naturally result from
length of days, be added the sweet food of the
mind, gathered in the fields of science, I know of
no season of life that is passed more agreeably than
the learned leisure of a virtuous old age. Can
the luxuries of the table, or the amusements of
the theatre, supply their votaries with enjoyments
worthy to be compared with the calm delights of
intellectual employments ? And, in minds rightly
formed and properly cultivated, these exalted de-
lights never fail to improve and gather strength
with years.
From the pleasures which attend a studious old
age, let us turn to those derived from rural occupa-
tions, of which I am a warm admirer. Pleasures
of this class are perfectly consistent with every
degree of advanced years, as they approach more
nearly than any others to those of a purely philo-
sophical kind. They are derived from observing
the nature and properties of our earth, which yields
ready obedience to the cultivator's industry, and
returns, with interest, whatever he places in her
94 ESSAY ON OLD AGE.
charge. But the profit arising from this fertility is
by no means the most desirable circumstance of the
farmer's labors. I am principally delighted with
observing the powers of Nature, and tracing her
processes in vegetable productions. How wonder-
ful it is that eafh species is endowed with power to
continue itself; and that minute seeds should de-
velop so amazingly into large trunks and branches !
The orchard, the vegetable garden, and the, par-
terre diversify the pleasures of farming ; not to
mention the feedino; of cattle and the rearing of
bees. Among my friends and neighbors in the
country are several men far advanced in life, who
employ themselves with so much activity and in-
dustry in agricultural business, that nothing impor-
tant is carried on without their supervision. And
these rural veterans do not confine their energies
to those sorts of crops which are sown and reaped
in one year. They occupy themselves in branches
of husbandry from which they know they cannot
live to derive any advantage. If asked why they
thus expend their labor, they might well reply :
" We do it in obedience to the immortal gods. By
their bountiful providence we received these fields
from our ancestors, and it is their will that we
should transmit them to posterity with improve-
ments." In my opinion there is no happier occu-
pation than agriculture ; not only on account of its
great utility to mankind, but also as the source
of peculiar pleasures. I might expatiate on the
ESSAY ON OLD AGE. 95
beauties of verdant groves and meadows, on the
charming landscape of olive-trees and vineyards ;
but to sav all in one word, there cannot be a
more pleasing, or a more profitable scene than that
of a well-cultivated farm. And where else can
a man in the last stages of life more easily find
warm sunshine, or a good fire in winter, or the
pleasure of cooling shades and refreshing streams
in summer ?
It is often argued that old age must necessarily
be a state of much anxiety and disquietude, on
account of the near approach of death. That the
hour of dissolution cannot be far distant from an
aged man is undoubtedly true. But every event
that is agreeable to the course of nature ought to
be regarded as a real good; and surely nothing
can be more natural than for the old to die. It is
true that youth also is exposed to dissolution ; but
it is a dissolution obviously contrary to Nature's
intentions, and in opposition to her strongest
efforts. Fruit, before it is ripe, cannot be sepa-
rated from the stalk without some degree of force ;
but when it is perfectly mature, it drops of itself:
so the disunion of the soul and body is effected in
the young by violence, but in the old it takes place
by mere fulness and completion of years. This
ripeness for death I perceive in myself with much
satisfaction ; and I look forward to my dissolution
as to a secure haven, where I shall at length find
a happy repose from the fatigues of a long voyage.
96 ESSAY ON OLD AGE.
With regard to the consequences of our final
dissolution, I will venture to say that the nearer
death approaches the more clearly do I seem to
discern its real nature. When I consider the
faculties with which the human mind is endowed, 1
its amazing celerity, its wonderful power in recol-
lecting past events, and its sagacity in discerning
the future, together with its numberless discover-
ies in arts and sciences, I feel a conscious convic-
tion that this active, comprehensive principle can-
not possibly be of a mortal nature. And as this
unceasing activity of the soul derives its energy
from its own intrinsic and essential powers, with-
out receiving it from any foreign or external im-
pulse, it necessarily follows that its activity must
continue forever. I am induced to embrace this
opinion, not only as agreeable to the best deduc-
tions of reason, but also in deference to the
authority of the noblest and most distinguished
philosophers.
I am well convinced that my dear departed
friends are so far from having ceased to live, that
the state they now enjoy can alone with propriety
be called life. I feel myself transported with im-
patience to rejoin those whose characters I have
greatly respected and whose persons I have loved.
Nor is this earnest desire confined alone to those
excellent persons with whom I have been connect-
ed. I ardently wish also to visit those celebrated
worthies of whom I have heard or read much. To
ESSAY ON OLD AGE. 97
this glorious assembly I am speedily advancing ;
and I would not be turned back on my journey,
even on the assured condition that my youth
should be again restored. The sincere truth is,
if some divinity would confer on me a new grant
of life, I would reject the offer without the least
hesitation. I have wellnigh finished the race,
and have no disposition to return to the starting-
point. I do not mean to imitate those philoso-
phers who represent the condition of human
nature as a subject of just lamentation. The
satisfactions of this life are many ; but there
comes a time when we have had a sufficient
measure of its enjoyments, and may well depart
contented with our share of the feast. I am far
from regretting that this life was bestowed on
me ; and I have the satisfaction of thinking that
I have employed it in such a manner as not to
have lived in vain. In short, I consider this
world as a place which Nature never in-
tended for my permanent abode ;
and I look on my departure
from it, not as being driven
from my habitation,
but simply as
leaving an
inn.
THE FOUNTAIN.
By WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
WE talked with open heart, and tongue
Affectionate and true,
A pair of friends, though I was young,
And Matthew seventy-two.
A village schoolmaster was he,
With hair of glittering gray ;
As blithe a man as you could see
On a spring holiday.
And on that morning, through the grass
And by the steaming rills,
We travelled merrily, to pass
A day among the hills.
We lay beneath a spreading oak,
Beside a mossy seat ;
And from the turf a fountain broke,
And gurgled at our feet.
. THE FOUNTAIN. 99
" Now, Matthew," said I, " let us match
This water's pleasant tune
With some old Border-Song, or Catch,
That suits a summer's noon.
" Or of the church-clock and the chimes
Sing here beneath the shade,
That half-mad thing of witty rhymes
Which you last April made."
In silence Matthew lay, and eyed
The spring beneath the tree ;
And thus the dear old man replied,
The gray-haired man of glee :
" Down to the vale this water steers ;
How merrily it goes !
'T will murmur on a thousand years,
And flow as now it flows.
" And here, on this delightful day,
I cannot choose but think
How oft, a vigorous man, I lay
Beside this fountain's brink.
" My eyes are dim with childish tears,
My heart is idly stirred,
For the same sound is in my ears
Which in those days I heard.
" Thus fares it still in our decay ;
And yet the wiser mind
Mourns less for what age takes awav,
Than what it leaves behind.
100 THE FOUNTAIN.
" The blackbird in the summer trees,
The lark upon the hill,
Let loose their carols when they please,
Are quiet when they will.
" With Nature never do they wage
A foolish strife ; they see
A happy youth, and their old age
Is beautiful and free.
" But we are pressed by heavy laws ;
And often, glad no more,
"We wear a face of joy, because
We have been glad of yore.
" If there is one who need bemoan
His kindred laid in earth,
The household hearts that were his own,
It is the man of mirth.
" My days, my friend, are almost gone ;
My life has been approved,
And many love me ; but by none
Am I enough beloved."
" Now both himself and me he wrongs,
The man who thus complains !
I live and sing my idle songs
Upon these happy plains ;
" And, Matthew, for thy children dead,
I '11 be a son to thee ! "
At this, he grasped my hand, and said,
" Alas ! that cannot be ! "
THE FOUNTAIN. 101
We rose up from the fountain-side ;
And down the smooth descent
Of the green sheep-track did we glide,
And through the wood we went.
And ere we came to Leonard's Rock,
He sang those witty rhymes
About the crazy old church-clock,
And the bewildered chimes.
A POET'S BLESSING.
FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND.
As'I wandered the fields along,
Listening to the lark's sweet song,
I saw an old man working there,
A laborer with hoary hair.
" Blessings upon this field ! " I said ;
" Fruitful by faithful labor made.
And blessings on thy wrinkled hand,
Thus scattering seed along the land ! n
He answered me, with earnest face,
"A poet's blessing 's out of place ;
Likely enough that Heaven, in scorn,
Will send us flowers instead of corn."
" Nay, friend," said I, " my tuneful powers
Wake not to life too many flowers ;
Only enough to grace the land,
And fill thy little grandson's hand."
BERNARD PALISSY.*
! Call him not old, whose visionary brain
Holds o'er the past its undivided reign.
For him in vain the envious seasons roll,
Who bears eternal summer in his soul.
If yet the minstrel's song, the poet's lay,
Spring with her birds, or children with their play,
Or maidon's smile, or heavenly dream of Art,
Stir the few life-drops creeping round his heart, —
Turn to the record where his years are told, —
Count his gray hairs, — they cannot make him old ! "
ERNARD PALISSY was born in one
of the southwestern districts of France,
in 1509 ; more than three hundred and
fifty years ago, and more than a cen-
tury before our forefathers landed on Plymouth
Rock. The art of making colored glass, and of
painting on glass, had been for centuries in great
requisition, for the windows of castles and cathe-
drals. It was considered an occupation so honor-
able, that poor nobles sometimes resorted to it witli-
* These facts are gleaned from Morley's Life of Palissy the
Potter.
BERNARD PALISSY. 103
out losing caste ; though the prejudices concerning
rank were at that time very strong. The manu-
facture was generally carried on in the depths of
forests, partly for the convenience of gathering fuel
for the furnaces, and partly to avoid the danger
of fire in towns. Around these manufactories the
workmen erected their cabins, and night and day
the red flames of the furnaces lighted up trees and
shrubbery with a lurid glow. It is supposed that
Bernard was born and reared in one of these ham-
lets, secluded from the world. The immense for-
ests furnished a vast amount of chestnuts, which
constituted the principal food of the peasantry.
Constant labor in the open air, combined with this
extreme simplicity of diet, formed healthy, vigor-
ous men, free-hearted, simple, and brave. Whether
Bernard's father, who is supposed to have been a
modeller of glass, was a decayed gentleman, or
simply a peasant, is not known. Bernard, by some
means, learned to read and write, which was not
an ordinary accomplishment at that period. He
also had a great talent for drawing, which he
improved, either by practice or instruction. In
other respects his education was simply that of the
peasantry around him. In his owii account of
his early days he says, " I had no other books than
heaven and earth, which are open to all." These
volumes, however, he studied with lively interest
and the closest observation. He took notice of
the growth of plants and the habits of animals.
104 BERNARD PALISSY.
He soon began to paint on paper the likenesses of
birds, lizards, and trees. As his skill increased, he
made portraits of his mother and the neighbors,
and landscapes containing the houses they lived
in. The preparation of colors for glass early
awakened an interest in chemical combinations ;
but there were then no books on the subject, and
he could only increase his stock of knowledge by
repeated experiments. His skill in drawing en-
abled him to produce a variety of new patterns
for glass-work, and this, combined with his knowl-
edge of colors, rendered his services, much more
important than those of a common workman. But
the once profitable business was now in its decline.
People began to find out that the exclusion of
sunshine was unwholesome, and that the obstruc-
tion of light rendered their dwellings gloomy.
Moreover, windows in those days, being opened
on hinges, were much more exposed to be shat-
tered by storms. To repair stained or painted glass
was an expensive process ; and in order to avoid
the frequent necessity of it, people fastened their
windows into the wall, so that they could not be
opened. This excluded air, as well as light and
sun-warmth ; and gradually colored windows fell
into disuse.
Bernard's father was poor, and the profits of his
business were too scanty to yield a comfortable
support for his family. Therefore, the young
man, when he was eighteen years old, strapped
BERNARD PALISSY. 105
a scantily filled wallet upon his shoulders, and
marched forth into the world to seek his fortune.
Francis I. and Charles V. were then devastating
half Europe by their wars, and the highways
were filled with military adventurers and crip-
pled soldiers. From these the young traveller
obtained his first glimpses of the violence and in-
trigues going on in the world beyond his native
forests.
He was also overtaken by a travelling cloth-mer-
chant, who told him of many new things. In
order to dignify his own calling, he enumerated
many great men who had been employed in trade.
Among others, he mentioned a renowned Athe-
nian, called " the divine Plato," by reason of the
excellence of his wisdom, who had sold olive-oil in
Egypt, to defray the expenses of travelling there.
" I never heard of Plato," said Bernard. " O,
you are a wild bird from the forest," replied
the trader ; " you can only pipe as you have been
taught by nature. But I advise you to make
acquaintance with books. Our King Francis is
now doing so much to encourage the arts and
sciences, that every artisan can become wise, if
he makes good use of his leisure. Our shops may
now be our schools." " Then I should wish the
whole world to be my shop," rejoined Bernard.
" I feel that earth and air are full of mysteries and
wonders ; full of the sublime wisdom of God."
So he wandered on, reading, as he had done
5*
106 BERNARD PALISSY.
from childhood, in " the book of earth and heaven,
which is open to all."
" For Nature, the old nurse, took
The child upon her knee,
Saying, * Here is a story-book
Thy Father has written for thee/
" ' Come, wander with me/ she said,
' Into regions yet untrod ;
And read what is still unread
In the manuscripts of God/
" And he wandered away and away,
With Nature, the dear old nurse,
Who sang to him night and day
The rhymes of the universe."
If lizards were basking in the sunshine, he stopped
to admire their gliding motions, and prismatic
changes of color. If he found a half-covered snail
among the wet mosses, he lingered till he ascer-
tained that it was gradually making a new shell
from its own saliva. If a stone was curious in
form or shape, he picked it up and put it in
his wallet ; and oftentimes he would crack them,
to discover their interior structure. Every new
flower and seed attracted his attention, and excited
wonder at the marvellous varieties of Nature.
These things are hinted at all through his writings.
He says : "In walking under the fruit-trees, I
received a great contentment and many joyous
pleasures ; for I saw the squirrels gathering the
fruits, and leaping from branch to branch, with
BERNARD PALISSY. 107
many pretty looks and gestures. I saw nuts gath-
ered by the rooks, who rejoiced in taking their
repast, dining on the said nuts. Under the apple-
trees, I found hedgehogs, that rolled themselves
into a round form, and, thrusting out their sharp
quills, they rolled over the apples, which stuck on
the points, and so they went burdened. These
things have made me such a lover of the fields,
that it seems to me there are no treasures in the
world so precious as the little branches of trees and
plants. I hold them in more esteem than mines
of gold and silver." This loving communion with
Nature was not mere idle dreaming. Always he
was drawing inferences from what he saw, and
curiously inquiring into the causes of things.
He supported himself by painting glass, and
sketching portraits. He says, in his modest way,
" They thought me a better painter than I was."
If he arrived in a town where a cathedral- or an
abbey was being built, he sometimes tarried long to
make a variety of rich patterns for the windows.
In other places, he would find only a few repairs
required in the windows of castles or churches, and
so would quickly pass on. To arrange mosaic pat-
terns of different-colored glass required constant
use of rule and compass, and this suggested the
study of geometry, which he pursued with charac-
| teristic eagerness. The knowledge thus acquired
made him a skilful surveyor, and he was much
employed in mapping out boundaries, and making
108 BERNARD PALISSY.
plans for houses and gardens, a business which he
found more profitable than glass-work or portraits.
These various occupations brought him occasion-
ally into contact with men who were learned in
the arts and sciences, according to the standard of
learning at that time, and his active mind never
failed to glean something from such interviews. A
French translation of the Scriptures had been pub-
lished in 1498. He seems to have had a copy
with him during his travels, and to have studied
it with reverential attention. Thus constantly
observing and acquiring, the young man trav-
ersed France, from Spain to the Netherlands, and
roamed through a portion of Germany. Ten years
were spent in this way, during which he obtained
the best portion of that education which he after-
ward turned to good account.
He is supposed to have been about twenty-nine
years old, when he married, and settled in the town
of Saintes, in the western part of France. He
supported his family by glass-work, portraits, and
surveying. A few years after his marriage, some
one showed him an enamelled cup, brought from
Italy. It seemed a slight incident ; but it woke
the artistic spirit slumbering in his soul, and was
destined to effect a complete revolution in his life.
He says : " It was an earthen cup, turned and
enamelled with so much beauty, that from that
time I entered into controversy with my own
thoughts. I began to think that if I should dis-
BERNARD PALISSY. 109
cover how to make enamels, I could make earthen
vessels very prettily ; because God had gifted me
with some knowledge of drawing. So, regardless
of the fact that I had no knowledge of clays, I
began to seek for the enamel, as a man gropes in
the dark."
In order to begin to comprehend the difficulties
he had to encounter, we must know that only the
rudest kind of common pottery had then been
made in France, and even with the manufacture
of that he was entirely unacquainted. If he had
been unmarried, he might have travelled among
the potters of Europe, as he had among the glass-
makers, and have obtained useful hints from them ;
but his family increased fast, and needed his pro-
tection and support. Tea was not introduced into
Europe till a hundred years later ; and there were
no specimens of porcelain from China, except here
and there a costly article imported by the rich.
He was obliged to test the qualities of various
kinds of clays ; what chemical agents would pro-
duce enamel ; what other agents would produce
colors ; and the action of heat on all of them. He
bought quantities of earthen jars, broke them into
fragments, applied to each piece some particular
chemical substance, and tried them all in a furnace.
He says : "I pounded all the substances I could
suppose likely to make anything. Having blun-
dered several times, at great expense, and through
much labor, I was every day pounding and grind-
110 BERNARD PALISSY.
ing new materials, and constructing new furnaces,
which cost much money and consumed, my wood
and my time." While these expenses were going
on, his former occupations were necessarily sus-
pended ; thus " the candle was burning out at
both ends." His wife began to complain. Still
he went on, trying new compounds, as he says,
" always with great cost, loss of time, confusion
and sorrow." The privations of his family and
the anxiety of his wife gave him so much pain,
that he relinquished his experiments for a while.
He says : u Seeing I could not in this way come
at my intention, I occupied myself in my art of
painting and glass-working, and comported myself
as if I were not zealous to dive any more into the
secret of enamels." The king ordered extensive
surveys, and he found that employment so profita-
ble, that his family were soon at ease again. But
that Italian cup was always in his mind. He says :
" When I found myself with a little money, I re-
sumed my affection for pursuing in the track of the
enamels." For two years he kept up a series of
experiments, under all manner of difficulties, and
always without success. His wife scolded, and
even his own courage began to fail. At last he
applied more than three hundred kinds of mixtures
to more than three hundred fragments, and put
them all in the furnace ; resolved that if this ex-
periment proved a failure, he would try no more.
He tells us : " One of the pieces came out white
BERNARD PALISSY. HI
and polished, in a way that caused me such joy, as
made me think I was become a new creature."
He was then thirty-seven years old.
He was merely at the beginning of what he
aimed to accomplish. He had discovered how to
make the enamel, but he still knew nothing of
pottery, or of the effect which various degrees of
heat would produce on colors. A new furnace
was necessary, and he proceeded to build it, with
prodigious labor. Being too poor to hire help, he
brought bricks on his own back from a distant
kiln ; he made his own mortar, and drew the wa-
ter with which it was tempered. He fashioned
vessels of clay, to which his enamel could be ap-
plied. For more than a month he kept up an
incessant fire night and day, and was continually
grinding materials in a hand-mill, which it usually
required two men to turn. He believed himself
to be very near complete success, and everything
''depended upon not letting the heat of the furnaces
go down. In the desperation of his poverty and
the excitement of his sanguine hopes, he burned
the garden-fence, and even some of the tables,
doors, and floors of his house. His wife became
frantic, and gave him no peace. She was to be
pitied, poor woman ! Not being acquainted with
chemical experiments, she did not know, as he did,
that he was really on the point of making a great
and lucrative discovery. She had heard it so long
that she did n't believe it. They had a large fam-
112 BERNARD PALISSY.
ily of children, and while their father was trying
expensive experiments, several of them were dying
of a disease prevalent at that time. It was a
gloomy and trying period for all of them. He
says : " I suffered an anguish that I cannot speak.
I was quite exhausted and dried up by the heat of
the furnace. It was more than a month since my
shirt had been dry upon me. I was the object of
mockery. Even those from whom solace was due
ran crying through the town that I was burning
my floors. In this way I came to be regarded as
a madman. I was in debt in several places. I
had two children at nurse, and was unable to pay
the nurses. Men jested at me as I passed through
the streets, and said it was right for me to die of
hunger, since I had left following my trade. Some
hope still remained to sustain me, for my last
experiments had turned out tolerably well, and
I thought I knew enough to get my living ; but I
found I was far enough from that yet.
The want of means to build sheds to cover his
clay vessels was another great difficulty. After
working all day, and late into the night, sometimes
a heavy rain would spoil all his work, just as he
had it ready to bake. He describes himself, on
such occasions, as utterly weak and exhausted, so
that walking home he " reeled like a man drunk
with wine." He says : " Filled with a great sor-
row, inasmuch as having labored long I saw my
labor wasted, I would retire soiled and drenched,
BERNARD PALISSY. 113
to find in my chamber a second persecution worse
than the first ; which now causes me to marvel
that I was not consumed by suffering."
In the midst of all this tribulation, the strug-
gling artist had one source of consolation. Jean
Cauvin, better known to us as John Calvin, had
been preaching Protestant doctrines in France, and
had given rise to the sect called Huguenots. The
extravagance and licentiousness of society at that
period, and the abuses practised by a powerful and
wealthy priesthood, naturally inclined this pure
and simple-minded man to the doctrines of the
Reformers. He became acquainted with an artisan
of the same turn of mind, whom he describes as
" simple, unlearned, and marvellously poor." His
delight was to hear Palissy read the Scriptures.
Gradually his listeners increased to ten, and they
formed a little society, which took turns in exhor-
tation and prayer. One of them is supposed to
have been an innkeeper, who, from religious sym-
pathy, allowed poor Palissy to take meals at his
house on credit.
He still continued his experiments, and met
with successive disappointments of one kind or
another. At last, he thought he had learned
how to adjust everything just right; and confi-
dent of success, he one day put into the oven a
batch of vessels, beautifully formed and painted.
But a new misfortune awaited him. The mate-
rials of his furnace contained flints. These ex-
114 BERNARD PALISSY.
paneled and burst with the great heat, and struck
into the vessels while they were soft, injuring the
enamel, and covering the surface with irregular
sharp points. This blow almost prostrated him;
for he had expected this beautiful batch would
bring a considerable sum of money for the support
of his family, and put to silence those that jeered
at him. But he was a man of wonderful endur-
ance. He says : " Having remained some time
upon the bed, I reflected that if a man should fall
into a pit, it would be his duty to try to get out
again." So the brave soul roused himself, and set
to work diligently to earn money, by his old trades
of painting and surveying.
Having supplied the necessities of his family, he
again returned to his pottery; fully believing that
his losses and hazards were over, and that he could
now make articles that would bring good prices.
But new disappointments awaited him. The green
with which he painted his lizards burnt before the
brown of the serpents melted ; a strong current of
air in the furnace blew ashes all over his beautiful
vessels and spoiled the enamel. He says : " Be-
fore I could render my different enamels fusible
at the same decree of heat, I thought I should be
at the door of my sepulchre. I was so wasted in
my person that there was no form nor prominence
in the muscles of my arms or legs ; also the said
legs were throughout of one size ; so that when I
walked, garters and stockings were at once down
BERNARD PALISSY. 115
upon my heels. I often roamed about the fields,
considering my miseries and weariness, and above
all things, that in my own house I could have no
peace, nor do anything that was considered good.
I was despised and mocked by all. Nevertheless,
I had a hope, which caused me to work so like a
man, that I often did my best to laugh and amuse
people who came to see me, though within me all
was very sad."
At the end of ten years from the commence-
ment of his experiments, he succeeded in making
a kind of ware, of mixed enamels, resembling jas-
per. It was not what he had been aiming to
accomplish, but it was considered pretty, and sold
well enough to support his family comfortably.
While he was making continual improvements in
his pottery, the Huguenots w T ere increasing to a-
degree that provoked persecution. A schoolmas-
ter in a neighboring town, who " preached on
Sundays, and was much beloved by the people,"
w T as brought to Saintes and publicly burnt. But
Palissv and his little band were not intimidat-
ed. They continued to meet for exhortation and
prayer. At first it was done mostly at midnight ;
but the pure and pious lives of these men and
women formed such a contrast to the licentious-
ness and blasphemy prevailing round them, that
they gradually gained respect ; insomuch that they
influenced the magistrates of the town to pass
laws restraining gambling and dissipation. So
116 BERNARD PALISSY.
great a change was produced, that, when Palissy
was fifty-one years old, he says : " On Sundays
you might see tradesmen rambling through the
fields, groves, and other places, in bands, singing
psalms, canticles, and spiritual songs, or reading
and instructing each other. You might see young
women seated in gardens and other places, who
in like way delighted themselves with singing all
holy things. The very children were so well in-
structed that they had no longer a puerility of
manner, but a look of manly fortitude. These
things had so well prospered that people had
changed their old manners, even to their very
countenances."
After six years more of successive improve-
ments, making sixteen years in the whole, this
persevering man at last accomplished the object
for which he had toiled and suffered so much.
He produced a very beautiful kind of china, which
became celebrated under the name of Palissy
Ware. These articles were elaborately adorned
with vines, flowers, butterflies, lizards, serpents,
and other animals. He had always been such a
loving observer of nature that we cannot wonder
at being told " he copied these, in form and color,
with the minute exactness of a naturalist, so that
the species of each could be determined accu-
rately." These beautiful articles sold at high
prices. Orders flowed in from kings and nobles.
The Constable Montmorenci, a nobleman of im-
BERNARD PALISSY. 117
mense wealth, employed Palissy to decorate Ills
magnificent Chateau d'Ecouen, about twelve miles
from Paris. There he made richly painted win-
dows, covered with Scripture scenes, some of his
own designing, others copied from Raphael and
Albert Durer. Vases and statuettes of his beau-
tiful china were deposited in various places ; and
the floors of chapel and galleries were inlaid with
china tiles of his painting. Among the groves he
formed a very curious grotto of china. He mod-
elled rugged rocks, " sloping, tortuous, and lumpy,"
which he painted with imitations of such herbs
and mosses as grow in moist places. Brilliant liz-
ards appeared to glide over its surface, " in many
pleasant gestures and agreeable contortions." In
the trenches of water were some living frogs and
fishes, and other china ones, which so closely
resembled them as not to be easily distinguished.
At the foot of the rocks, branches of coral, of his
manufacture, appeared to grow in the water. A
poet of that period, praising this work, says:
" The real lizard on the moss has not more lustre
than the lizards in that house made famous by
your new work. The plants look not sweeter in
the fields, and green meadows are not more pre-
ciously enamelled, than those which grow under
your hand." The Constable Montmorenci built a
convenient shop for him, where he w T orked with
two of his sons. A large china dog at the door
was so natural, that the dogs often barked at it
and challenged it to fight.
118 BERNARD PALISSY.
Meanwhile, a terrible storm was gathering over
the heads of the Huguenots. Civil war broke out
between the Catholics and Protestants. Old men
were burnt for quoting Scripture, and young girls
stabbed for singing psalms. But worldly prosper-
ity and the flattery of the great could not tempt
Palissy to renounce or conceal his faith. He pur-
sued his artistic labors, though he says, " For two
months I was greatly terrified, hearing nothing
every day but reports of horrible murders." He
would have fallen among the first victims, had it
not been for written protections from powerful
nobles, who wanted ornamental work done which
no other man could do. The horrible massacre
of St. Bartholomew occurred when he was sixty-
three years old, but he escaped by aid of his
powerful patrons. The officers appointed to hunt
out Huguenots longed to arrest him, but did not
dare to do it in the daytime. At last they came
tramping about his house at midnight, and carried
him off to a prison in Bordeaux. The judges
would gladly have put him to death, but their
proceedings were stopped by orders from the
Queen Mother, Catherine de Medicis. Montmo-
renci, Montpensier, and other influential Catholic
nobles, who had works uncompleted, and who
doubtless felt kindlv toward the old artist, inter-
ceded with her, and she protected him ; not be-
cause he was a good man, but because the art he
practised was unique and valuable. The enam-
BERNARD PALISSY. 119
elled Italian cup, which had troubled so many
years of his life, proved the cause of its being
saved.
The last ten years of Palissy's mortal existence
were spent in Paris. He had an establishment in
the grounds of the Tuileries, where he manufac-
tured vases, cups, plates, and curious garden-basins
and baskets, ornamented with figures in relief.
His high reputation drew toward him many men
of taste and learning, who, knowing his interest in
all the productions of Nature, presented him with
many curious specimens of shells, minerals, fos-
sils, &c. He formed these into a Museum, where
scholars met to discuss the laws and operations of
Nature. This is said to have been the first society
established in Paris for the pure advancement of
science. When he was sixty-six years old, he be-
gan a course of public lectures, which he continued
to deliver annually for ten years. These were the
first lectures on Natural History ever delivered in
Paris. The best men of the Capital went there to
discuss with him, and to hear him state, in his sim-
ple, earnest fashion, the variety of curious things
he had observed in travels by mountain and sea-
shore, through field and forest, and in his exper-
iments on glass and china. Some pedants were
disposed to undervalue his teachings, because he
had never learned Greek or Latin. Undisturbed
by this, he cordially invited them to come and dis-
prove his statements if they could, saying : "I want
120 BERNARD PALISSY.
to ascertain whether the Latins know more upon
these subjects than I do. I am indeed a simple
artisan, poorly enough trained in letters ; but the
things themselves have not less value than if they
were uttered by a man more eloquent. I had
rather speak truth in my rustic tongue, than lie in
rhetoric."
He published several books on Agriculture,
Volcanoes, the Formation of Rocks, the Laws of
Water, &c. His last book was written when he
was seventy-one years old. Scientific knowledge
was then in its infancy, but adequate judges con-
sider his ideas far in advance of his time. A mod-
ern French scholar calls him, " So great a natu-
ralist as only Nature could produce." There is a
refreshing simplicity about his style of writing, and
his communications with the world were obviously
not the result of vanity, but of general benevo-
lence and religious reverence. He felt that all he
had was from God, and that it was a duty to im-
part it freely. He says : " I had employed much
time in the study of earths, stones, waters, and
metals ; and old age pressed me to multiply the
talents God had given me. For that reason, I
thought it would be good to bring to the light
those excellent secrets, in order to bequeath them
to posterity."
He continued vigorous in mind and body, and
was remarked for acuteness and ready wit. He
abstained from theological discussions in his teach-
BERNARD PALLSSY. 121
ings, but made no secret of the fact that his opin-
ions remained unchanged. Amid the frivolity,
dissipation, and horrid scenes of violence that were
going on in Paris, he quietly busied himself mak-
ing artistic designs, and imparting his knowledge
of natural history ; recreating himself frequently
with the old pleasure of rambling in field and
forest, taking loving observation of all God's little
creatures.
He was seventy-six years old, when the king,
Henry III., issued a decree forbidding Protes-
tants to exercise their worship, on pain of death,
and banishing all who had previously practised it.
Angry bigots clamored for the death of the brave
old potter. The powerful patrons of his art
again prevented his execution ; but the tide was
so strong against the Reformers, that he was sent
to the Bastile. Two Huguenot girls were in prison
with him, and they mutually sustained each other
with prayer and psalms. The king, in his fashion-
able frills and curls, occasionally visited the prisons,
and he naturally felt a great desire that the dis-
tinguished old Bernard Palissy should make a
recantation of his faith. One day he said to him :
" My good man, you have been forty-five years in
the service of the queen, my mother, or in mine ;
and in the midst of all the executions and mas-
sacres, we have allowed you to live in your religion.
But now I am so hardly pressed by the Guise party,
and by my people, that I am compelled, in spite of
6
122 BERNARD PALISSY.
myself, to order the execution of these two poor
young women, and of yourself also, unless you
recant." " Sire," replied the old man, " that is
not spoken like a king. You have often said you
pitied me ; but now I pity you ; because you have
said, ' I am compelled.'' These girls and I, who
have our part in the kingdom of Heaven, will teach
you to talk more royally. Neither the Guises, nor
all your people, nor yourself, can compel the old
potter to bow down to your images of clay. I
can die."
The two girls were burnt a few months after-
ward. Palissy remained in prison four years, and
there he died at eighty years of age. The secrets
of the Bastile were well kept, and we have no
record of those years. We only know that, like
John Bunyan, he wrote a good deal in prison.
The thick, dark walls must have been dismal to
one who so loved the free air, and who val-
ued trees and shrubs " bevond silver
and gold." But the martyr was
not alone. He had with him
the God whom he trusted,
and the memories of
an honest, useful,
and religious
life.
?
OLD AGE COMING.
By Elizabeth Hamilton, a Scotch writer, author of " The
Cottagers of Glenburnie," and several other sensible and inter-
esting works. She died, unmarried, about fifty years ago, nearly
sixty years old. These lines were written in such very broad
Scotch, that I have taken the liberty to render them in English,
making no changes, except a few slight variations, which the
necessities of rhyme required.
IS that Old Age, who 's knocking at the gate ?
I trow it is. He sha'n't be asked to wait.
You 're kindly welcome, friend ! Nay, do not fear
To show yourself ! You '11 cause no trouble here.
I know there 're some who tremble at your name,
As though you brought with you reproach or shame ;
And who of thousand lies would bear the sin,
Rather than own you for their kith and kin.
But far from shirking you as a disgrace,
Thankful I am to live to see your face.
Nor will I e'er disown you, or take pride
To think how long I might your visit hide.
1 11 do my best to make you well respected,
And fear not for your sake to be neglected.
124 OLD AGE COMING.
Now you have come, and, through all kinds of weather,
We 're doomed from this time forth to jog together,
I 'd fain make compact with you, firm and strong ?
On terms of give and take, to hold out long.
If you '11 be civil, I will liberal be ;
Witness the list of what I '11 give to thee.
First then, I here make o'er, for good and aye,
All youthful fancies, whether bright or gay.
Beauties and graces, too, might be resigned,
But much I fear they would be hard to find ;
For 'gainst your daddy Time they could not stand,
Nor bear the grip of his relentless hand.
But there 's my skin, which you may further crinkle,
And write your name, at length, on ev'ry wrinkle.
On my brown locks your powder you may throw,
And bleach them to your fancy, white as snow.
But look not, Age, so wistful at my mouth,
As if you longed to pull out ev'ry tooth !
Let them, I do beseech you, keep their places !
Though, if you like, you 're free to paint their faces.
My limbs I yield you ; and if you see meet
To clap your icy shackles on my feet,
I '11 not refuse ; but if you drive out gout,
Will bless you for 't, and offer thanks devout.
So much I give to you with free good-will ;
But, O, I fear that more you look for still.
I know, by your stern look and meaning leers,
You want to clap your fingers on my ears.
Right willing, too, you are, as I surmise,
To cast your misty powder in my eyes.
But, O, in mercy spare my little twinklers !
And I will always wear your crystal blinkers.
OLD AGE COMING. 125
Then 'bout my ears I 'd fain a bargain strike,
And give my hand upon it, if you like.
Well then — would you consent their use to share ?
*T would serve us both, and be a bargain rare.
I 'd have it thus, — When babbling fools intrude,
Gabbling their noisy nonsense for no good ;
Or when ill-nature, well brushed up with wit,
With sneer sarcastic, takes its aim to hit ;
Or when detraction, meanest sort of pride,
Spies out small faults, and seeks great worth to hide ;
Then make me deaf as ever deaf can be !
At all such times, my ears I lend to thee.
But when, in social hours, you see combined
Genius and wisdom, fruits of heart and mind,
Good sense, good nature, wit in playful mood,
And candor, e'en from ill extracting good ;
O, then, old friend, I must have back my hearing !
To want it then would be an ill past bearing.
I 'd rather sit alone, in wakeful dreaming,
Than catch the sound of words without their meaning.
You will not promise ? O, you 're very glum !
Right hard to manage, you 're so cold and dumb !
No matter. — Whole and sound I '11 keep my heart
Not from one crumb on 't will I ever part.
Its kindly warmth shall ne'er be chilled by all
The coldest breath that from your lips can fall.
You need n't vex yourself, old churl, nor fret !
My kindly feelings you shall never get.
And though to take my hearing you rejoice,
In spite of you, I '11 still hear friendship's voice.
And though you take the rest, it shall not grieve me ;
For gleams of cheerful spirits you must leave me.
126 OLD AGE COMING.
But let me whisper in your ear, Old Age,
I 'm bound to travel with you- but one stage.
Be 't long or short, you cannot keep me back ;
And when we reach the end on % you must pack !
Be 't soon or late, we part forever there !
Other companionship I then shall share.
This blessed change to me you 're bound to bring.
You need not think I shall be loath to spring
From your poor feeble side, you churl uncouth !
Into the arms of Everlasting Youth.
All that your thieving hands have stolen away
He will, with interest, to me repay.
Fresh gifts and graces freely he '11 bestow,
More than the heart has wished, or mind can know.
You need not wonder then, nor swell with pride,
That I so kindly welcomed you as guide
To one who 's far your better. Now all 's told.
Let us set out upon our journey cold.
With no vain boasts, no vain regrets tormented,
We '11 quietly jog on our way, contented.
" On he moves to meet his latter end,
Angels around befriending virtue's friend ;
Sinks to the grave with unperceived decay,
While resignation gently slopes the way ;
And, all his prospects brightening to the last,
His heaven commences ere the world is past."
Goldsmith.
UNMARRIED WOMEN.
By L. MARIA CHILD.
OCIETY moves slowly toward civiliza-
tion, but when we compare epochs half
a century, or even a quarter of a cen-
tury apart, we perceive many signs that
progress is made. Among these pleasant indica-
tions is the fact that the phrase " old maid ' ' has
gone wellnigh out of fashion ; that jests on the
subject are no longer considered witty, and are
never uttered by gentlemen. In my youth, I not
unfrequently heard women of thirty addressed
something in this style : " What, not married yet ?
If you don't take care, you will outstand your
market." Such words could never be otherwise
than disagreeable, nay, positively offensive, to any
woman of sensibility and natural refinement; and
that not merely on account of wounded vanity, or
disappointed affection, or youthful visions receding
in the distance, but because the idea of being in
128 UNMARRIED WOMEN.
the market, of being a commodity, rather than an
individual, is odious to every human being.
I believe a large proportion of unmarried women
are so simply because they have too much con-
science and delicacy of feeling to form marriages
of interest or convenience, without the concur-
rence of their affections and their taste. A wo-
man who is determineci to be married, and who
" plays her cards well," as the phrase is, usually
succeeds. But how much more estimable and
honorable is she who regards a life-union as too
important and sacred to be entered into from mo-
tives of vanity or selfishness.
To rear families is the ordination of Nature,
and where it is done conscientiously it is doubtless
the best education that men or women can receive.
But I doubt the truth of the common remark that
the discharge of these duties makes married peo-
ple less selfish than unmarried ones. The selfish-
ness of single women doubtless shows itself in
more petty forms ; such as being disturbed by
crumbs on the carpet, and a litter of toys about
the house. But fathers and mothers are often self-
ish on a large scale, for the sake of advancing the
worldly prosperity or social condition of their chil-
dren. Not only is spiritual growth frequently
sacrificed in pursuit of these objects, but princi-
ples are trampled on, which involve the welfare
of the whole human race. Within the sphere of
my own observation, I must confess that there
UNMARRIED WOMEN. 129
is a larger proportion of unmarried than of mar-
ried women whose sympathies are active and
extensive.
I have before my mind two learned sisters,
familiar with Greek, Latin, and French, and who,
late in life, acquired a knowledge of German also.
They spent more than sixty years together, qui-
etly digging out gold, silver, or iron from the rich
mines of ancient and modern literature, and free-
ly imparting their treasures wherever they were
called for. No married couple could have been
more careful of each other in illness, or more
accommodating toward each other's peculiarities ;
yet they were decided individuals ; and their talk
never wanted
" An animated No,
To brush its surface, and to make it flow."
Cultivated people enjoyed their conversation,
which was both wise and racy ; a steady light of
good sense and large information, with an occa-
sional flashing rocket of not ill-natured satire.
Yet their intellectual acquisitions produced no con-
tempt for the customary occupations of women.
All their friends received tasteful keepsakes of
their knitting, netting, or crocheting, and all the
poor of the town had garments of their handi-
work. Neither their sympathies nor their views
were narrowed by celibacy. Early education had
taught them to reverence everything that was
established ; but with this reverence they mingled
6* i
130 UNMARRIED WOMEN.
a lively interest in all the great progressive ques-
tions of the day. Their ears were open to the
recital of everybody's troubles and everybody's
joys. On New Year's day, children thronged
round them for books and toys, and every poor
person's face lighted up as they approached ; for
they were sure of kindly inquiries and sympathiz-
ing words from them, and their cloaks usually
opened to distribute comfortable slippers, or warm
stockings of their own manufacture. When this
sisterly bond, rendered so beautiful by usefulness
and culture, was dissolved by death, the survivor
said of her who had departed : " During all her
illness she leaned upon me as a child upon its
mother; and O, how blessed is now the con-
sciousness that I never disappointed her ! " This
great bereavement was borne with calmness, for
loneliness was cheered by hope of reunion. On the
anniversary of her loss the survivor wrote to me :
" I find a growing sense of familiarity with the
unseen world. It is as if the door were invitingly
left ajar, and the distance were hourly diminishing.
I never think of her as alone. The unusual num-
ber of departed friends for whom we had recently
mourned seem now but an increase to her happi-
ness."
I had two other unmarried friends, as devoted
to each other, and as tender of each other's pe-
culiarities as any wedded couple I ever knew.
Without being learned, they had a love of general
UNMARRIED WOMEN. 131
reading, which, with active charities, made their
days pass profitably and pleasantly. They had
the orderly, systematic habits common to single
ladies, but their sympathies and their views were
larger and more liberal than those of their married
sisters. Their fingers were busy for the poor,
whom they were always ready to aid and comfort,
irrespective of nation or color. Their family
affections were remarkably strong, yet they had
the moral courage to espouse the unpopular cause
of the slave, in quiet opposition to the prejudices
of beloved relatives. Death sundered this tie
when both were advanced in years. The de-
parted one, though not distinguished for beauty
during her mortal life, had, after her decease, a
wonderful loveliness, like that of an angelic child.
It was the outward impress of her interior life.
Few marriages are more beautiful or more hap-
py than these sisterly unions ; and the same may
be said of a brother and sister, whose lives are
bound together. All lovers of English literature
know how charmingly united in mind and heart
were Charles Lamb and his gifted sister ; and our
own poet, Whittier, so dear to the people's heart,
has a home made lovely by the same fraternal
relation of mutual love and dependence.
A dear friend of mine, whom it was some good
man's loss not to have for a life-mate, adopted the
orphan sons of her brother, and reared them with
more than parental wisdom and tenderness, caring
132 UNMARRIED WOMEN.
for all their physical wants, guiding them in pre-
cept and example by the most elevated moral
standard, bestowing on them the highest intellec-
tual culture, and studying all branches with them,
that she might in alKthings be their companion.
Nor is it merely in such connections, which
somewhat resemble wedded life, that single wo-
men make themselves useful and respected. Many
remember the store kept for so long a time in Bos-
ton by Miss Ann Bent.
Her parents being poor, she early began to sup-
port herself by teaching. A relative subsequently
furnished her with goods to sell on commission ;
and in this new employment she manifested such
good judgment, integrity, and general business ca-
pacity, that merchants were willing to trust her to
any extent. She acquired a handsome property,
which she used liberally to assist a large family of
sisters and nieces, some of whom she established
in business similar to her own. No mother or
grandmother was ever more useful or beloved.
One of her nieces said : " I know the beauty and
purity of my aunt's character, for I lived with her
forty years, and I never knew her to say or do
anything which might not have been said or done
before the whole world."
I am ignorant of the particulars of Miss Bent's
private history; but doubtless a woman of her
comely looks, agreeable manners, and excellent
character, might have found opportunities to mar-
UNMARRIED WOMEN. 133
ry, if that had been a paramount object with her.
She lived to be more than eighty-eight years old,
universally respected and beloved ; and the numer-
ous relatives, toward whom she had performed a
mother's part, cheered her old age with grateful
affection.
There have also been many instances of single
women who have enlivened and illustrated their
lives by devotion to the beautiful arts. Of these
none are perhaps more celebrated than the Italian
Sofonisba Angusciola and her two accomplished
sisters. These three " virtuous gentlewomen," as
Vasari calls them, spent their lives together in
most charming union. All of them had uncom-
mon talent for painting, but Sofonisba was the
most gifted. One of her most beautiful pictures
represents her two sisters playing at chess, attend-
ed by the faithful old duenna, who accompanied
them everywhere. This admirable artist lived to
be old and blind ; and the celebrated Vandyke
said of her, in her later years : " I have learned
more from one blind old woman in Italy, than
from all the masters of the art."
Many single women have also employed their
lives usefully and agreeably as authors. There is
the charming Miss Mitford, whose writings cheer
the soul like a meadow of cowslips in the spring-
time. There is Frederica Bremer, whose writings
have blessed so many souls. There is Joanna
Baillie, Maria Edgeworth, Elizabeth Hamilton,
134 UNMARRIED WOMEN.
and our own honored Catherine M. Sedgwick,
whose books have made the world wiser and bet-
ter than they found it.
I am glad to be sustained in my opinions on this
subject by a friend whose own character invests
single life with peculiar dignity. In a letter to
me, she says : "I object to having single woriien
called a class. They are individuals, differing in
the qualities of their characters, like other human
beings. Their isolation, as a general thing, is the
result of unavoidable circumstances. The Author
of Nature doubtless intended that men and women
should live together. But, in the present state
of the world's progress, society has, in many re-
spects, become artificial in proportion to its civili-
zation ; and consequently the number of single
women must constantly increase. If humanity
were in a state of natural, healthy development,
this would not be so ; for young people would then
be willing to begin married life with simplicity and
frugality, and real happiness would increase in
proportion to the diminution of artificial wants.
This prospect, however, lies in the future, and
many generations of single women must come and
go before it will be realized.
"But the achievement of character is the highest
end that can be proposed to any human being, and
there is nothing in single life to prevent a woman
from attaining this great object; on the contrary,
it is in many respects peculiarly favorable to it.
UNMARRIED WOMEN. 135
The measure of strength in character is the power
to conquer circumstances when they refuse to co-
operate with us. The temptations peculiarly inci-
dent to single life are petty selfishness, despondency
under the suspicion of neglect, and ennui from the
want of interesting occupation. If an ordinary,
feeble-minded woman is exposed to these tempta-
tions, she will be very likely to yield to them.
But she would not be greatly different in charac-
ter, if protected by a husband and flanked with
children ; her feebleness would remain the same,
and would only manifest itself under new forms.
" Marriage, under favorable circumstances, is
unquestionably a promoter of human happiness.
But mistakes are so frequently made by entering
thoughtlessly into this indissoluble connection, and
so much wretchedness ensues from want of suffi-
cient mental discipline to make the best of what
cannot be remedied, that most people can discover
among their acquaintance as large a proportion
of happy single women as they can of happy wives.
Moreover, the happiness of unmarried women is
as independent of mere gifts of fortune, as that
of other individuals. Indeed, all solid happiness
must spring from inward sources. Some of the
most truly contented and respectable women I
have ever known have been domestics, who grew
old in one family, and were carefully looked after,
in their declining days, by the children of those
whom they faithfully served in youth.
136 UNMARRIED WOMEN.
" Most single women might have married, had
they seized upon the first opportunity that offered ;
but some unrevealed attachment, too high an ideal,
or an innate fastidiousness, have left them solitary ;
therefore, it is fair to assume that many of them
have more sensibility and true tenderness than
some of their married sisters. Those who remain
single in consequence of too much worldly ambi-
tion, or from the gratification of coquettish vanity,
naturally swell the ranks of those peevish, discon-
tented ones, who bring discredit on single life in
the abstract. But when a delicate gentlewoman
deliberately prefers passing through life alone, to
linking her fate with that of a man toward whom
she feels no attraction, why should she ever repent
of so high an exercise of her reason ? This class
of women are often the brightest ornaments of
society. Men find in them calm, thoughtful
friends, and safe confidants, on whose sympathy
they can rely without danger. In the nursery,
their labors, being voluntary, are less exhausting
than a parent's. When the weary, fretted mother
turns a deaf ear to the twenty-times-repeated ques-
tion, the baffled urchins retreat to the indulgent
aunt, or dear old familiar friend, sure of obtaining
a patient hearing and a kind response. Almost
everybody can remember some samples of such
Penates, whose hearts seem to be too large to be
confined to any one set of children.
" Some of my fairest patterns of feminine excel-
UNMARRIED WOMEN. 137
lence have been of the single sisterhood. Of
those unfortunate ones who are beacons, rather
than models, I cannot recall an individual whose
character I think would have been materially im-
proved by marriage. The faults which make a
single woman disagreeable would probably exist to
the same degree if she were a wife ; and the vir-
tues which adorn her in a state of celibacy would
make her equally beloved and honored if she were
married. The human soul is placed here for de-
velopment and progress ; and it is capable of con-
verting all circumstances into means of growth
and advancement.
" Among my early recollections is that of a lady
of stately presence, who died while I was still
young, but not till she had done much to remove
from my mind the idea that the name of 4 old
maid' was a term of reproach. She was the
daughter of Judge Russell, and aunt to the late
Reverend and beloved Dr. Lowell. She had been
one of a numerous family of brothers and sisters,
but in my childhood was sole possessor of the old
family mansion, where she received her friends
and practised those virtues which gained for her
the respect of the whole community. Sixty years
ago, it was customary to speak of single women
with far less deference than it now is ; and I re-
member being puzzled by the extremely respectful
manner in which she was always mentioned. If
there were difficulties in the parish, or if any doubt-
138 UNMARRIED WOMEN.
fill matters were under discussion, the usual ques-
tion was ' What is Miss Russell's opinion ? ' I
used to think to myself, ' She is an old maid, after
all, yet people always speak of her as if she were
some great person.'
u Miss Burleigh was another person of whom I
used to hear much through the medium of mutual
friends. She resided with a married sister in Sa-
lem, and was the ' dear Aunt Susan,' not only of
the large circle of her own nephews and nieces,
but of all their friends and favorites. Having
ample means, she surrounded herself with choice
books and pictures, and such objects of Art or
Nature as would entertain and instruct young
minds. Her stores of knowledge were prodigious,
and she had such a happy way of imparting it,
that lively boys were glad to leave their play, to
spend an hour with Aunt Susan. She read to her
young friends at stated times, and made herself
perfectly familiar with them ; and as they grew
older she became their chosen confidant. She was,
in fact, such a centre of light and warmth, that no
one could approach her sphere without being con-
scious of its vivifying influence.
" ' Aunt Sarah Stetson,' another single lady, was
a dear and honored friend of my own. She was
of masculine size and stature, gaunt and ungainly
in the extreme. But before she had uttered three
sentences, her hearers said to themselves, ' Here is
a wise woman ! ' She was the oldest of thirteen
UNMARRIED WOMEN. 139
children, early deprived of their father, and she
bore the brunt of life from youth upward. She
received only such education as was afforded by
the public school of an obscure town seventy years
ago. To add to their scanty means of subsistence,
she learned the tailor's trade. In process of time,
the other children swarmed off from the parental
hive, the little farm was sold, and she lived alone
with her mother. She built a small cottage out of
her own earnings, and had the sacred pleasure of
taking her aged parent to her own home, and min-
istering with her own hands to all her wants. For
sixteen years, she never spent a night from home,
but assiduously devoted herself to the discharge of
this filial duty, and to the pursuance of her trade.
Yet in the midst of this busy life, she managed to
become respectably familiar with English literature,
especially with history. Whatever she read, she
derived from it healthful aliment for the growth of
her mental powers. She was full of wise maxims
and rules of life ; not doled out with see-saw prosi-
ness, but with strong common sense, rich and racy,
and frequently flavored with the keenest satire.
She had a flashing wit, and wonderful power of
detecting shams of all sorts. Her religious opin-
ions were orthodox, and she was an embodiment
of the Puritan character. She was kindly in her
feelings, and alive to every demonstration of affec-
tion, but she had a granite firmness of principle,
which rendered her awful toward deceivers and
140 UNMARRIED WOMEN.
transgressors. All the intellectual people of the
town sought her company with avidity. The Uni-
tarian minister and his family, a wealthy man, who
happened to be also the chief scholar in the place,
and the young people generally, took pleasure in
resorting to Aunt Sarah's humble home, to minis-
ter to her simple wants, and gather up her words of
wisdom. Her spirit was bright and cheerful to the
last. One of her sisters, who had been laboring
sixteen years as a missionary among the south-
western Indians, came to New England to visit
the scattered members of her family. After see-
ing them in their respective homes, she declared :
4 Sarah is the most light-hearted of them all ; and
it is only by her fireside that I have been able to
forget past hardships in merry peals of laughter.'
41 During my last interview with Aunt Sarah,
when she was past seventy years of age, she said,
4 1 have lived very agreeably single ; but if I be-
come infirm, I suppose I shall feel the want of life's
nearest ties.' In her case, however, the need was
of short duration, and an affectionate niece sup-
plied the place of a daughter.
" Undoubtedly, the arms of children and grand-
children form the most natural and beautiful cradle
for old age. But loneliness is often the widow's
portion, as well as that of the single woman ; and
parents are often left solitary by the death or emi-
gration of their children.
46 I am tempted to speak also of a living friend,
UNMARRIED WOMEN. 141
now past her sixtieth year. She is different from
the others, but this difference only confirms my
theory that the mind can subdue all things to itself.
This lady is strictly feminine in all her habits and
pursuits, and regards the needle as the chief im-
plement of woman's usefulness. If the Dorcas
labors performed by her one pair of hands could
be collected into a mass, out of the wear and waste
of half a century, they would form an amazing
pile. In former years, when her health allowed
her to circulate among numerous family connec-
tions, her visits were always welcomed as a jubilee ;
for every dilapidated wardrobe was sure to be
renovated by Aunt Mary's nimble fingers. She
had also a magic power of drawing the little ones
to herself. Next to their fathers and mothers, she
was the best beloved. The influence which her
loving heart gained over them in childhood in-
creased with advancing years. She is now the best
and dearest friend of twenty or thirty nephews and
nieces, some of whom have families of their own.
" A large amount of what is termed mother-wit, a
readiness at repartee, and quickness in seizing un-
expected associations of words or ideas, rendered
her generally popular in company ; but the deep
cravings of her heart could never be satisfied with
what is termed success in society. The intimate
love of a few valued friends was what she always
coveted, and never failed to win. For several years
she has been compelled by ill health to live entirely
142 UNMARRIED WOMEN.
•
at home. There she now is, fulfilling the most
important mission of her whole beneficent life,
training to virtue and usefulness five motherless
children of her brother. Feeble and emaciated,
she lives in her chamber surrounded bv these
orphans, who now constitute her chief hold on life.
She shares all their pleasures, is the depositary of
their little griefs, and unites in herself the relations
of aunt, mother, and grandmother. She has faith
to believe that her frail thread of existence will be
prolonged for the sake of these little ones. The
world still comes to her, in her seclusion, through
a swarm of humble friends and dependants, who
find themselves comforted and ennobled by the
benignant patience with which she listens to their
various experiences, and gives them kindly, sym-
pathizing counsel, more valuable to them than
mere pecuniary aid. Her spirit of self-abnegation
is carried almost to asceticism ; but she reserves
her severity wholly for herself; toward others she
is prodigal of indulgence. This goodly temple of
a human soul was reared in these fair proportions
upon a foundation of struggles, disappointments,
and bereavements. A friend described her serene
exterior as a ' placid, ocean-deep manner ' ; under
it lies a silent history of trouble and trial, con-
verted into spiritual blessings.
" The conclusion of the matter in my mind is,
that a woman may make a respectable appearance
as a wife, with a character far less noble than
UNMARRIED WOMEN. 143
is necessary to enable her to lead a single life
with usefulness and dignity. She is sheltered
and concealed behind her husband ; but the
unmarried woman must rely upon herself; and
she lives in a glass house, open to the gaze of
every passer-by. To the feeble-minded, marriage
is almost a necessity, and if wisely formed it
doubtless renders the life of any woman more
happy. But happiness is not the sole end and aim
of this life. We are sent here to build up a
character ; and sensible women may easily
reconcile themselves to a single life, since
even its disadvantages may be con-
verted into means of develop-
ment of all the faculties
with which God
has endowed
them."
?
You are " getting into years." Yes, but the
years are getting into you ; the ripe, mellow years.
One by one, the crudities of your youth are falling
off from you ; the vanity, the egotism, the bewil-
derment, the uncertainty. Every wrong road into
which you have wandered has brought you, by the
knowledge of that mistake, nearer to the truth.
Nearer and nearer you are approaching your-
self. — Gail Hamilton.
THE OLD MAID'S PRAYER TO
DIANA.
By Mrs. Tighe, an Irish author, who wrote more than fifty
years ago, when single women had not attained to the honorable
position which they now occupy.
SINCE thou and the stars, my dear goddess, decree
That, old maid as I am, an old maid I must be,
O, hear the petition I offer to thee !
For to bear it must be my endeavor :
From the grief of my friendships all drooping around,
Till not one whom I loved in my youth can be found ;
From the legacy-hunters, that near us abound,
Diana, thy servant deliver !
From the scorn of the young, and the flaunts of the gay,
From all the trite ridicule rattled away
By the pert ones, who know nothing wiser to say, —
Or a spirit to laugh at them, give her !
From repining at fancied neglected desert ;
Or, vain of a civil speech, bridling alert ;
From finical niceness, or slatternly dirt ;
Diana, thy servant deliver !
THE OLD MAID'S PRAYER TO DIANA. 145
From over solicitous guarding of pelf;
From humor unchecked, that most obstinate elf;
From every unsocial attention to self,
Or ridiculous whim whatsoever ;
From the vaporish freaks, or methodical airs,
Apt to sprout in a brain that 's exempted from cares ;
From impertinent meddling in others' affairs ;
Diana, thy servant deliver !
From the erring attachments of desolate souls ;
From the love of spadille, and of matadore voles ; *
Or of lap-dogs, and parrots, and monkeys, and owls,
Be they ne'er so uncommon and clever ;
But chief from the love, with all loveliness flown,
Which makes the dim eye condescend to look down
On some ape of a fop, or some owl of a clown ;
Diana, thy servant deliver !
From spleen at beholding the young more caressed ;
From pettish asperity, tartly expressed ;
From scandal, detraction, and every such pest;
From all, thy true servant deliver !
Nor let satisfaction depart from her cot ;
Let her sing, if at ease, and be patient if not ;
Be pleased when regarded, content when forgot,
Till the Fates her slight thread shall dissever.
* Terms used in Ombre, a game at cards.
GRANDFATHER'S REVERIE.
By THEODORE PARKER.
Grandfather is old. His back is
bent. In the street he sees crowds of
men looking dreadfully young, and
walking fearfully swift. He wonders
where all the old folks are. Once, when a boy, he
could not find people young enough for him, and
sidled up to any young stranger he met on Sun-
days, wondering why God made the world so old.
Now he goes to Commencement to see his grand-
son take his degree, and is astonished at the yduth
of the audience. " This is new," he says ; "it
did not use to be so fifty years ago." At meeting,
the minister seems surprisingly young, and the au-
dience young. He looks round, and is astonished
that there are so few venerable heads. The audi-
ence seem not decorous. They come in late, and
hurry off early, clapping the doors after them with
irreverent bang. But grandfather is decorous,
well mannered, early in his seat ; if jostled, he
GRANDFATHERS REVERIE. 147
jostles not again ; elbowed, he returns it not ;
crowded, he thinks no evil. He is gentlemanly to
the rude, obliging to the insolent and vulgar ; for
grandfather is a gentleman ; not puffed up with
mere money, but edified with well-grown manli-
ness. Time has dignified his good manners.
It is night. The family are all abed. Grand-
father sits by his old-fashioned fire. He draws
his old-fashioned chair nearer to the hearth. On
the stand which his mother gave him are the can-
dlesticks, also of old time. The candles are three
quarters burnt down ; the fire on the hearth also
is low. He has been thoughtful all day, talking
half to himself, chanting a bit of verse, humming
a snatch of an old tune. He kissed his pet grand-
daughter more tenderly than common, before she
went to bed. He takes out of his bosom a little
locket ; nobody ever sees it. Therein are two
little twists of hair. As Grandfather ldoks at them,
the outer twist of hair becomes a whole head of
ambrosial curls. He remembers stolen interviews,
meetings by moonlight. He remembers how sweet
the evening star looked, and how he laid his hand
on another's shoulder, and said, " You are my
evening star."
The church-clock strikes the midnight hour.
He looks in his locket again. The other twist is
the hair of his first-born son. At this same hour
of midnight, once, many years ago, he knelt and
prayed, when the long agony was over, — " My
148 GRANDFATHERS REVERIE.
God, I thank thee that, though I am a father, I
am still a husband, too ! What am I, that unto
me a life should be given and another spared ! "
Now he has children, and children's children, the
joy of his old age. But for many a year his wife
has looked to him from beyond the evening star.
She is still the evening star herself, yet more beau-
tiful ; a star that never sets ; not mortal wife now,
but angel.
The last stick on his andirons snaps asunder, and
falls outward. Two faintly smoking brands
stand there. Grandfather lays them to-
gether, and they flame up ; the
two smokes are united in one
flame. " Even so let it
be in heaven," says
Grandfather.
f
Useless, do you say you are ? You are of great
use. You really are. How are you useful ? By
being a man that is old. Your old age is a public
good. It is indeed. No child ever listens to your
talk without having a good done it that no school-
ing could do. When you are walking, no one ever
opens a gate for you to pass through, and no one
ever honors you with any kind of help, without
being himself the better for what he does ; for
fellow-feeling with you ripens his soul for him. —
MoUNTFOKD.
THE OLD COUPLE.
IT stands in a sunny meadow,
The house so mossy and brown,
"With its cumbrous old stone chimneys,
And the gray roof sloping down.
The trees fold their green arms round it,
The trees a century old,
And the winds go chanting through them,
And the sunbeams drop their gold.
The cowslips spring in the marshes,
And the roses bloom on the hill,
And beside the brook in the pastures
The herds go feeding at will.
The children have gone and left them ;
They sit in the sun alone ;
And the old wife's tears are falling,
As she harks to the well-known tone
That won her heart in girlhood,
That has soothed her in many a care,
And praises her now for the brightness
Her old face used to wear.
150 THE OLD COUPLE.
She thinks again of her bridal, —
How, dressed in her robe of white,
She stood by her gay young lover
In the morning's rosy light.
O, the morning is rosy as ever,
But the rose from her cheek is fled ;
And the sunshine still is golden,
But it falls on a silvery head.
And the spring-like dreams, once vanished,
Come back in her winter-time,
Till her feeble pulses tremble
With the thrill of girlhood's prime.
And, looking forth from the window,
She thinks how the trees have grown.
Since, clad in her bridal whiteness,
She crossed the old door-stone.
Though dimmed her eyes' bright azure,
And dimmed her hair's young gold,
The love in her girlhood plighted
Has never grown dim nor old.
They sat in peace in the sunshine,
Till the day was almost done ;
And then at its close an angel
Stole over the threshold stone
He folded their hands together ;
He touched their eyes with balm ;
And their last breath floated upward,
Like the close of a solemn psalm.
THE OLD COUPLE. 151
Like a bridal pair they traversed
The unseen mystical road,
That leads to the beautiful city,
" Whose Builder and Maker is God."
Perhaps, in that miracle country,
They will give her lost youth back,
And the flowers of a vanished spring-time
Will bloom in the spirit's track.
One draught of the living waters
Shall call back his manhood's prime,
And eternal years shall measure
The love that outlived time.
But the forms that they left behind them,
The wrinkles and silver hair,
Made holy to us by the kisses
The angel had printed there,
We will hide away 'neath the willows
When the day is low in the west,
Where the sunshine gleams upon them,
And no winds disturb their rest.
And we '11 suffer no telltale tombstone,
With its age and date, to rise
O'er the two who are old no longer,
In their Father's house in the skies.
Home Jouknal.
A STORY OF ST. MARK'S EVE.
By THOMAS HOOD.
St. Mark's Day is a festival which has been observed on the
25th of April, in Catholic countries, from time immemorial.
The superstition alluded to in the following story was formerly
very generally believed, and vigils in the church-porch at mid-
night were common.
HOPE it'll choke thee ! " said Master
Giles, the yeoman ; and, as he said it,
he banged his big red fist on the old
oak table. " I do say I hope it '11 choke
thee ! "
The dame made no reply. She was choking
with passion and a fowl's liver, which was the
cause of the dispute. Much has been said and
sung concerning the advantage of congenial tastes
amongst married people ; but the quarrels of this
Kentish couple arose from too great coincidence
in their tastes. They were both fond of the little
delicacy in question, but the dame had managed to
secure the morsel to herself. This was sufficient
to cause a storm of high words, which, properly
understood, signifies very low language. Their
A STORY OF ST. MARKS EVE. 153
meal times seldom passed over without some con-
tention of this sort. As sure as the knives and
forks clashed, so did they ; being in fact equally
greedy and disagreedy ; and when they did pick a
quarrel, they picked it to the bone.
It was reported that, on some occasions, they
had not even contented themselves with hard
speeches, but had come to scuffling ; he taking to
boxing and she to pinching, though in a far less
amicable manner than is practised by the taker of
snuff. On the present difference, however, they
were satisfied with " wishing each other dead with
all their hearts "; and there seemed little doubt of
the sincerity of the aspiration, on looking at their
malignant faces ; for they made a horrible picture
in this frame of mind.
Now it happened that this quarrel took place on
the morning of St. Mark ; a saint who was sup-
posed on that festival to favor his votaries with a
peep into the book of fate. For it was the popu-
lar belief in those days, that, if a person should
keep watch at midnight beside the church, the ap-
paritions of all those of the parish who were to be
taken by death before the next anniversary would
be seen entering the porch. The yeoman, like his
neighbors, believed most devoutly in this supersti-
tion ; and in the very moment that he breathed
the unseemly aspiration aforesaid, it occurred to
him that the eve was at hand, when, by observing
the rite of St. Mark, he might know to a certainty
7*
154 A STORY OF ST MARK'S EVE.
whether this unchristian wish was to be one of
those that bear fruit. Accordingly, a little before
midnight, he stole quietly out of the house, and
set forth on his way to the church.
In the mean time, the dame called to mind the
same ceremonial ; and, having the like motive for
curiosity with her husband, she also put on her
cloak and calash, and set out, though by a different
path, on the same errand.
The night of the Saint was as dark and chill as
the mysteries he was supposed to reveal ; the moon
throwing but a short occasional glance, as sluggish
masses of cloud were driven slowly from her face.
Thus it fell out that our two adventurers were
quite unconscious of being in company, till a sud-
den glimpse of moonlight showed them to each
other, only a few yards apart. Both, through a
natural panic, became pale as ghosts ; and both
made eagerly toward the church porch. Much
as they had wished for this vision, they could not
help quaking and stopping on the spot, as if turned
to stones ; and in this position the dark again threw
a sudden curtain over them, and they disappeared
from each other.
The two came to one conclusion ; each conceiv-
ing that St. Mark had marked the other to himself.
With this comfortable knowledge, the widow and
widower elect hied home again by the roads they
came ; and as their custom w T as to sit apart after a
quarrel, they repaired to separate chambers, each
ignorant of the other's excursion.
A STORY OF ST. MARK'S EVE. 155
By and by, being called to supper, instead of
sulking as aforetime, they came down together,
each being secretly in the best humor, though
mutually suspected of the worst. Amongst other
things on the table, there was a calf's sweetbread,
being one of those very dainties that had often set
them together by the ears. The dame looked and
longed, but she refrained from its appropriation,
thinking within herself that she could give up
sweetbreads for one year ; and the farmer made a
similar reflection. After pushing the dish to and
fro several times, by a common impulse they di-
vided the treat ; and then, having supped, they
retired amicably to rest, whereas until then they
had seldom gone to bed without falling out. The
truth was, each looked upon the other as being
already in the churchyard.
On the morrow, which happened to be the
dame's birthday, the farmer was the first to wake ;
and 'knowing what lie knew, and having, besides,
but just roused himself out of a dream strictly
confirmatory of the late vigil, he did not scruple
to salute his wife, and wish her many happy returns
of the day. The wife, who knew as much as he,
very readily wished him the same ; having, in
truth, but just rubbed out of her eyes the pattern
of a widow's bonnet that had been submitted to
her in her sleep. She took care, however, at din-
ner to give the fowl's liver to the doomed man ;
considering that when he was dead and gone she
156 A STORY OF ST. MARK'S EVE.
could have them, if she pleased, seven days in the
week ; and the farmer, on his part, took care to
help her to many tidbits. Their feeling toward
each other was that of an impatient host with re-
gard to an unwelcome guest, showing scarcely a
bare civility while in expectation of his stay, but
overloading him with hospitality when made cer-
tain of his departure.
In this manner they went on for some six months,
without any addition of love between them, and as
much selfishness as ever, yet living in a subservi-
ence to the comforts and inclinations of each other,
sometimes not to be found even amongst couples
of sincerer affections. There were as many causes
for quarrel as ever, but every day it became less
worth while to quarrel ; so letting bygones be by-
gones, they were indifferent to the present, and
thought only of the future, considering each other
(to adopt a common phrase) " as good as dead."
Ten months wore away, and the farmer's birth-
day arrived in its turn. The dame, who had passed
an uncomfortable night, having dreamed, in truth,
that she did not much like herself in mourning,
saluted him as soon as the day dawned, and, with a
sigh, wished him many years to come. The farmer
repaid her in kind, the sigh included ; his own
visions having been of the painful sort ; for he
dreamed of having a headache from wearing a
black hat-band, and the malady still clung to him
when awake. The whole morning was spent in
A STORY OF ST MARK'S EVE. 157
silent meditation and melancholy, on both sides ;
and when dinner came, although the most favorite
dishes were upon the table, they could not eat. The
farmer, resting his elbows upon the board, with his
face between his hands, gazed wistfully on his wife.
The dame, leaning back in her high arm-chair,
regarded the yeoman quite as ruefully. Their
minds, travelling in the same direction, and at an
equal rate, arrived together at the same reflection ;
but the farmer was the first to give it utterance :
" Thee'd be missed, dame, if thee were to die ! "
The dame started. Although she had nothing
but death at that moment before her eyes, she was
far from dreaming of her own exit. Recovering,
however, from the shock, her thoughts flowed into
their old channel, and she rejoined in the same
spirit :
" I wish, master, thee may live so long as I ! '
The farmer, in his own mind, wished to live
rather longer ; for, at the utmost, he considered that
his wife's bill of mortality had but two months
to run ; the calculation made him sorrowful ; dur-
ing the last few months she had consulted his
appetite, bent to his humor, and conformed her
own inclinations to his, in a manner that could
never be supplied.
His wife, from being at first useful to him, had
become agreeable, and at last dear ; and as he
contemplated her approaching fate, he could not
help thinking out audibly, " that he should be a
158 A STORY OF ST. MARK'S EVE.
lonesome man when she was gone." The dame,
this time, heard the survivorship foreboded with-
out starting ; hut she marvelled much at what she
thought the infatuation of a doomed man. So
perfect was her faith in the infallibility of St.
Mark, that she had even seen the symptoms of
mortal disease, as palpable as plague-spots, on the
devoted yeoman. Giving his body up, therefore,
for lost, a strong sense of duty persuaded her that
it was imperative on her, as a Christian, to warn
the unsuspecting farmer of his dissolution. Ac-
cordingly, with a solemnity adapted to the subject,
a tenderness of recent growth, and a memento mori
face, she broached the matter in the following
question :
" Master, how bee'st thee ? "
" As hearty as a buck, dame ; and I wish thee
the like."
A dead silence ensued ; the farmer was as un-
prepared as ever. There is a great fancy for
breaking the truth by dropping it gently ; an ex-
periment which has never answered, any more
than with iron-stone china. The dame felt this ;
and, thinking it better to throw the news at her
husband at once, she told him, in as many words,
that he was a dead man.
It was now the yeoman's turn to be staggered.
By a parallel course of reasoning, he had just
wrought himself up to a similar disclosure, and
the dame's death-warrant was just ready upon his
A STORY OF ST. MARK'S EVE. 159
tongue, when he met with his own despatch,
sicned, sealed, and delivered. Conscience in-
stantly pointed out the oracle from which she
had derived the omen.
" Thee hast watched, dame, at the church
porch, then?"
" Ay, master."
" And thee didst see me spirituously ? '
" In the brown wrap, with the boot hose. Thee
were coming to the church, by Fair thorn Gap ; in
the while I were coming by the Holly Hedge."
For a minute the farmer paused ; but the next
he burst into a fit of uncontrollable laughter ; peal
after peal, each higher than the last. The poor
woman had but one explanation for this phenome-
non. She thought it a delirium ; a lightening be-
fore death ; and was beginning to wring her hands,
and lament, when she was checked by the merry
yeoman :
" Dame, thee bee'st a fool. It was I myself
thee seed at the church porch. I seed thee, too ;
with a notice to quit upon thy face ; but, thanks to
God, thee bee'st a living ; and that is more than I
cared to say of thee this day ten-month ! "
The dame made no answer. Her heart was too
full to speak ; but, throwing her arms round her
husband, she showed that she shared in his senti-
ment. And from that hour, by practising a care-
ful abstinence from oifence, or a temperate suffer-
ance of its appearance, they became the most
160 A STORY OF ST. MARK'S EVE.
united couple in the county. But it must be
said, that their comfort was not complete till they
had seen each other, in safety, over the perilous
anniversary of St. Mark's Eve.
The moral this story conveys is one which
might prove a useful monitor to us all, if we
could keep it in daily remembrance. Few, indeed,
are so coarse in their manifestations of ill-temper
as this Kentish couple are described ; but we all
indulge, more or less, in unreasonable fretfulness,
and petty acts of selfishness, in the relations of
husband and wife, parents and children, brothers
and sisters, — in fact, in all the relations of life.
It would help us greatly to be kind, forbearing,
and self-sacrificing toward neighbors, friends, and
relatives, if it were always present to our minds
that death may speedily close our intercourse with
them in this world. — L. M. C.
WHAT THE OLD WOMAN SAID.
ONE summer eve, I chanced to pass, where, by the
cottage gate,
An aged woman in the town sat crooning to her mate.
The frost of age was on her brow, its dimness in her
eye,
And her bent figure to and fro rocked all unconsciously.
The frost of age was on her brow, yet garrulous her
tongue,
As she compared the " doings now" with those when
she was young.
" When /was young, young gals were meek, and looked
round kind of shy ;
And when they were compelled to speak, they did so
modestly.
They stayed at home, and did the work ; made Indian
bread and wheaten;
And only went to singing-school, and sometimes to night
meetin\
And children were obedient then; they had no saucy
airs ;
And minded what their mothers said, and learned their
hymns and prayers.
K
162 WHAT THE OLD WOMAN SAID.
But now-a-days they know enough, before they know
their letters ;
And young ones that can hardly walk will contradict
their betters.
Young women now go kiting round, and looking out for
beaux ;
And scarcely one in ten is found, who makes or mends
her clothes !
But then, I tell my daughter,
Folks don't do as they 'd ought'-ter.
When i" was young, if a man had failed, he shut up
house and hall,
And never ventured out till night, if he ventured out at
all;
And his wife sold all her china plates; and his sons
came home from college ;
And his gals left school, and learned to wash and bake,
and such like knowledge ;
They gave up cake and pumpkin-pies, and had the
plainest eatin' ;
And never asked folks home to tea, and scarcely went
to meetin'.
The man that was a Bankrupt called, was kind'er
shunned by men,
And hardly dared to show his head amongst his town
folks then.
But now-a-days, when a merchant fails, they say he
makes a penny ;
The wife don't have a gown the less, and his daughters
just as many ;
His sons they smoke their choice cigars, and drink their
costly wine ;
WHAT THE OLD WOMAN SAID. 163
And she goes to the opera, and he has folks to dine !
He walks the streets, he drives his gig ; men show him
all civilities ;
And what in my day we called debts, are now his lie-
abilities !
They call the man unfortunate who ruins half the city, —
In my day 't was his creditors to whom we gave our pity.
But then, I '11 tell my daughter,
Folks don't do as they 'd ough'-ter.
From the Olive Branch.
THE SPRING JOURNEY.
O, green was the corn as I rode on my way,
And bright were the dews on the blossoms of May,
And dark was the sycamore's shade to behold,
And the oak's tender leaf was of emerald and gold.
The thrush from his holly, the lark from his cloud,
Their chorus of rapture sung jovial and loud;
From the soft vernal sky to the soft grassy ground,
There was beauty above me, beneath, and around.
The mild southern breeze brought a shower from the hill,
And yet, though it left me all dripping and chill,
I felt a new pleasure, as onward I sped,
To gaze where the rainbow gleamed broad overhead.
O such be life's journey ! and such be our skill
To lose in its blessings the sense of its ill ;
Through sunshine and shower may our progress be even,
And our tears add a charm to the prospect of heaven.
Bishop Heber.
MORAL HINTS
By L. MARIA CHILD.
ROBABLY there are no two things
I that tend so much to make human be-
! ings unhappy in themselves and un-
vs pleasant to others, as habits of fretful-
ness and despondency ; two faults peculiarly apt
to grow upon people after they have passed their
youth. Both these ought to be resisted with con-
stant vigilance, as we would resist a disease. This
we should do for our own sakes, and as a duty we
owe to others. Life is made utterly disagreeable
when we are daily obliged to listen to a complain-
ing house-mate. How annoying and disheartening
are such remarks as these : " I was not invited to
the party last night. I suppose I am getting to be
of no consequence to anybody now." " Yes, that
is a beautiful present you have had sent you.
Nobody sends me presents." " I am a useless en-
cumbrance now. I can see that people want me
out of their way." Yet such observations are not
MORAL HINTS. 165
unfrequently heard from persons surrounded by
external comforts, and who are- consequently en-
vied by others of similar disposition in less favora-
ble circumstances.
No virtue has been so much recommended to
the old as cheerfulness. Colton says : " Cheer-
fulness ouo;ht to be the viaticum of their life to the
old. Age without cheerfulness is a Lapland win-
ter without a sun."
Montaigne says : " The most manifest sign of
wisdom is continued cheerfulness."
Dr. Johnson says : " The habit of looking on
the best side of every event is worth more than a
thousand pounds a year."
Tucker says : " The point of aim for our vigi-
lance to hold in view is to dwell upon the brightest
parts in every prospect ; to call off the thoughts
when running upon disagreeable objects, and strive
to be pleased with the present circumstances sur-
rounding us."
Southey says, in one of his letters : " I have
told you of the Spaniard, who always put on his
spectacles when about to eat cherries, that they
might look bigger and more tempting. In like
manner, I make the most of my enjoyments ; and
though I do not cast my eyes away from my
troubles, I pack them in as little compass as I can
for myself, and never let them annoy others."
Perhaps you will say : " All this is very fine talk
for people who are naturally cheerful. But I am
166 MORAL HINTS.
low-spirited by temperament ; and how is that to
be helped ? " In the first place, it would be well
to ascertain whether what yon call being naturally
low-spirited does not arise from the infringement
of some physical law ; something wrong in what
you eat or drink, or something unhealthy in other
personal habits. But if you inherit a tendency to
look on the dark side of things, resolutely call in
the aid of your reason to counteract it. Leigh
Hunt says : "If you are melancholy for the first
time, you will find, upon a little inquiry, that
others have been melancholy many times, and yet
are cheerful now. If you have been melancholy
many times, recollect that you have got over all
those times ; and try if you cannot find means of
getting over them better."
If reason will not afford sufficient help, call in
the aid of conscience. In this world of sorrow and
disappointment, every human being has trouble
enough of his own. It is unkind to add the weight
of your despondency to the burdens of another,
who, if you knew all his secrets, you might find
had a heavier load than yours to carry. You find
yourself refreshed by the presence of cheerful
people. Why not make earnest efforts to confer
that pleasure on others ? You will find half the
battle is gained, if you never allow yourself to say
anything gloomy. If you habitually try to pack
your troubles away out of other people's sight, you
will be in a fair way to forget them yourself; first,
MORAL HINTS. 167
because evils become exaggerated to the imagina-
tion by repetition ; and, secondly, because an effort
made for the happiness of others lifts us above
ourselves.
Those who are conscious of a tendency to dejec-
tion should also increase as much as possible the
circle of simple and healthy enjoyments. They
should cultivate music and flowers, take walks to
look at beautiful sunsets, read entertaining books,
and avail themselves of any agreeable social in-
tercourse within their reach. They should also
endeavor to surround themselves with pleasant
external objects.
Our states of feeling, and even our characters,
are influenced by the things we habitually look
upon or listen to. A sweet singer in a household,
or a musical instrument played with feeling, do
more than afford us mere sensuous pleasure ; they
help us morally, by their tendency to harmonize
discordant moods. Pictures of pleasant scenes, or
innocent objects, are, for similar reasons, desirable
in the rooms we inhabit. Even the paper on the
walls may help somewhat to drive away " blue
devils," if ornamented with graceful patterns, that
light up cheerfully. The paper on the parlor of
Linnaeus represented beautiful flowering plants
from the East and West Indies ; and on the walls
of his bedroom were delineated a great variety of
butterflies, dragon-flies, and other brilliant insects.
Doubtless it contributed not a little to the happi-
168 MORAL HINTS.
ness of the great naturalist thus to live in the
midst of his pictured thoughts. To cultivate flow-
ers, to arrange them in pretty vases, to observe
their beauties of form and color, has a healthy
effect, both on mind and body. Some temper-
aments are more susceptible than others to these
fine influences, but they are not entirely without
effect on any human soul ; and forms of beauty
can now be obtained with so little expenditure
of money, that few need to be entirely destitute of
them.
Perhaps you will say, " If I feel low-spirited,
even if I do not speak of it, I cannot help showing
it." The best way to avoid the intrusion of sad
feelings is to immerse yourself in some occupation.
Adam Clarke said : "I have lived to know that
the secret of happiness is . never to allow your
energies to stagnate." If you are so unfortunate
as to have nothing to do at home, then, the mo-
ment you begin to feel a tendency to depression,
start forth for the homes of others. Tidy up the
room of some helpless person, who has nobody to
wait upon her ; carry flowers to some invalid, or
read to some lonely old body. If you are a man,
saw and split wood for some poor widow, or lone
woman, in the neighborhood. If vou are a woman,
knit stockings for poor children, or mend caps for
those whose eyesight is failing ; and when you
have done them, don't send them home, but take
them yourself. Merely to have every hour of life
MORAL HINTS, 169
fully occupied is a great blessing ; but the full
benefit of constant employment cannot be expe-
rienced unless we are occupied in a way that pro-
motes the good of others, while it exercises our
own bodies and employs our own minds. Plato
went so far as to call exercise a cure for a wounded
conscience ; and, provided usefulness is combined
with it, there is certainly a good deal of truth in
the assertion ; inasmuch as constant helpful activity
leaves the mind no leisure to brood over useless
regrets, and by thus covering the wound from the
corrosion of thought, helps it to become a scar.
Against that listless indifference, which the
French call ennui, industry is even a better pre-
servative than it is against vain regrets. There-
fore, it seems to me unwise for people in the
decline of life to quit entirely their customary
occupations and pursuits. The happiest specimens
of old as;e are those men and women who have
been busy to the last ; and there can be no doubt
that the decay of our powers, both bodily and
mental, is much hindered by their constant exer-
cise, provided it be not excessive.
It is recorded of Michael Angelo, that " after he
was sixty years old, though not very robust, he
would cut away as many scales from a block of
very hard marble, in a quarter of an hour, as three
young sculptors would have effected in three or
four hours. Such was the impetuosity and fire
with which he pursued his labors, that with a single
8
170 MORAL HINTS.
stroke he brought down fragments three or four
fingers thick, and so close upon his mark, that had
he passed it, even in the slightest degree, there
would have been danger of ruining the whole."
From the time he was seventy-one years old till he
was seventy-five, he was employed in painting the
Pauline Chapel. It was done in fresco, which .is
exceedingly laborious, and he confessed that it
fatigued him greatly. He was seventy-three years
old when he was appointed architect of the won-
derful church of St. Peter's, at Rome ; upon which
he expended the vast powers of his mind during
seventeen years. He persisted in refusing com-
pensation, and labored solely for the honor of his
country and his church. In his eighty-seventh
year, some envious detractors raised a report that
he had fallen into dotage ; but he triumphantly
refuted the charge, by producing a very beautiful
model of St. Peter's, planned by his own mind,
and in a great measure executed by his own hand.
He was eighty-three, when his faithful old servant
Urbino, who had lived with him twenty-six years,
sickened and died. Michael Angelo, notwith-
standing his great age, and the arduous labors of
superintending the mighty structure of St. Peter's,
and planning new fortifications for Rome, under-
took the charge of nursing him. He even watched
over him through the night ; sleeping by his side,
without undressing. This remarkable man lived
ninety years, lacking a fortnight. He wrote many
MORAL HINTS. 171
beautiful sonnets during his last years, and con-
tinued to make drawings, plans, and models, to the
day of his death, though infirmities increased upon
him, and his memory failed.
Handel lived to be seventy-five years old, and
though afflicted with blindness in his last years, he
continued to produce oratorios and anthems. He
superintended music in the orchestra only a week
before he died. Haydn was sixty-five years old,
when he composed his oratorio of The Creation,
the music of which is as bright as the morning
sunshine. When he was seventy-seven years old,'
he went to a great concert to hear it performed.
It affected him deeply to have his old inspirations
thus recalled to mind. When they came to the:
passage, " It was light ! ' he was so overpowered
by the harmonies, that he burst into tears, and,
pointing upwards, exclaimed : " Not from me ! Not
from me ! but thence did all this come ! '
Linnaeus was past sixty-two years old when he
built a museum at his country-seat, where he clas-
sified and arranged a great number of plants,
zoophytes, shells, insects, and minerals. Besides
this, he superintended the Royal Gardens, zeal-
ously pursued his scientific researches, corre-
sponded by letter with many learned men, taught
pupils, and lectured constantly in the Academic
Gardens. His pupils travelled to all parts of the
world, and sent him new plants and minerals to
examine and classify. In the midst of this con-
172 MORAL HINTS.
stant occupation, he wrote : "I tell the truth
when I say that I am happier than the King of
Persia. My pupils send me treasures from the
East and the West ; treasures more precious to
me than Babylonish garments or Chinese vases.
Here in the Academic Gardens is my Elysium.
Here I learn and teach ; here I admire, and point
out to others, the wisdom of the Great Artificer,
manifested in the structure of His wondrous
works." It is said that even when he was quite
ill, the arrival of an unknown plant would infuse
new life into him. He continued to labor with
unremitting diligence till he was sixty-seven years
old, when a fit of apoplexy attacked him in the
midst of a public lecture, and so far impaired his
memory that he became unable to teach.
The celebrated Alexander von Humboldt lived
ninety years, and continued to pursue his scientific
researches and to publish learned books up to the
very year of his departure from this world.
The Rev. John Wesley continued to preach and
write till his body was fairly worn out. Southey,
his biographer, says : " When you met him in the
street of a crowded city, he attracted notice, not
only by his band and cassock, and his long hair,
white and bright as silver, but by his pace and
manner, both indicating that all his minutes were
numbered, and that not one was to be lost."
Wesley himself wrote : " Though I am always in
haste, I am never in a hurry ; because I never
MORAL HINTS. 173
undertake more work than I can go through with
perfect calmness of spirit." Upon completing his
eighty-second year, he wrote : " It is now eleven
years since I have felt any such thing as weariness.
Many times I speak till my voice fails me, and I
can speak no longer. Frequently I walk till my
strength fails, and I can walk no farther. Yet
even then I feel no sensation of weariness, but am
perfectly easy from head to foot. I dare not im-
pute this to natural causes. It is the will of God."
A year later, he wrote : " I am a wonder to
myself. Such is the goodness of God, that I am
never tired, either with writing, preaching, or
travel lino;."
Isaac T. Hopper, who lived to be past eighty,
was actively employed in helping fugitive slaves,
and travelling about to exercise a kindly and be-
neficent influence in prisons, until a very short
time before his death. When he was compelled to
take to his bed, he said to me : " I am ready and
willing to go, only there is so much that I want
to do."
Some will say it is not in their power to do such
things as these men did. That may be. But there
is something that everybody can do. Those whose
early habits render it difficult, or impossible, to
learn a new science, or a new language, in the
afternoon of life, can at least oil the hinges of mem-
ory by learning hymns, chapters, ballads, and sto-
ries, wherewith to console and amuse themselves
174 MORAL HINTS.
and others. A stock of nursery rhymes to amuse
little children is far from being a foolish or worth-
less acquisition, since it enables one to impart
delight to the little souls,
" With their wonder so intense,
And their small experience."
Women undoubtedly have the advantage of men,
in those in-door occupations best suited to the in-
firm ; for there is no end to the shoes that may be
knit for the babies of relatives, the tidies that may
be crocheted for the parlors of friends, and the
socks that may be knit for the poor. But men also
can find employment for tedious hours, when the
period of youthful activity has passed. In sum-
mer, gardening is a never-failing resource both to
men and women ; and genial qualities of character
are developed by imparting to others the flowers,
fruit, and vegetables we have had the pleasure of
raising. The Rev. Dr. Prince of Salem was al-
ways busy, in his old age, making telescopes,
kaleidoscopes, and a variety of toys for scientific
illustrations, with which he instructed and enter-
tained the young people who visited him. My old
father amused himself, and benefited others, by
making bird-houses for children, and clothes-horses
and towel-stands for all the girls of his acquaint-
ance who were going to housekeeping. I knew
an old blind man, who passed his winter evenings
pleasantly weaving mats from corn-husks, while
MORAL HINTS. 175
another old man read to him. A lathe is a val-
uable resource for elderly people ; and this em-
ployment for mind and hands may also exercise
the moral qualities, as it admits of affording pleas-
ure to family and friends by innumerable neatly-
turned little articles. The value of occupation is
threefold to elderly people, if usefulness is combined
with exercise ; for in that way the machinery of
body, mind, and heart may all be kept from
rusting.
A sister of the celebrated John Wilkes, a wise
and kindly old lady, who resided in Boston a very
long time ago, was accustomed to say, " The true
secret of happiness is always to have a little less
time than one wants, and a little more money than
one needs." There is much wisdom in the saying,
but I think it might be improved by adding, that
the money should be of one's own earning.
After life has passed its maturity, great care
should be taken not to become indifferent to the
affairs of the world. It is salutary, both for mind
and heart, to take an interest in some of the great
questions of the age ; whether it be slavery or war,
or intemperance, or the elevation of women, or
righting the wrongs of the Indians, or the progress
of education, or the regulation of prisons, or im-
provements in architecture, or investigation into
the natural sciences, from which proceed results so
important to the daily comfort and occupations of
mankind. It is for each one to choose his object of
176 MORAL HINTS.
especial interest ; but it should be remembered that
no person has a right to be entirely indifferent con-
cerning questions involving great moral principles.
Care should be taken that the daily social influence
which every man and woman exerts, more or less,
should be employed in the right direction. A con-
scientious man feels himself in some degree respon-
sible for the evil he does not seek to prevent. In
the Rev. John "Wesley's journal for self-examina-
tion this suggestive question occurs : " Have I
embraced every probable opportunity of doing
good, and of preventing, removing, or lessening
evil ? ' Such habits of mind tend greatly to the
improvement of our own characters, while at the
same time they may help to improve the character
and condition of others. Nothing is more healthy
for the soul than to go out of ourselves, and stay
out of ourselves. We thus avoid brooding over
our own bodily pains, our mental deficiencies, or
past moral shortcomings ; we forget to notice
whether others neglect us, or not ; whether they
duly appreciate us, or not ; whether their advan-
tages are superior to ours, or not. He who leads
a true, active, and useful life has no time for
such corrosive thoughts. All self-consciousness
indicates disease. We never think about our
stomachs till we have dyspepsia. The moral dis-
eases which induce self-consciousness are worse
than the physical, both in their origin and their
results. To indulge in repinings over our own
MORAL HINTS. 177
deficiencies, compared with others, while it indi-
cates the baneful presence of envy, prevents our
making the best use of such endowments as we
have. If we are conscious of our merits, bodily or
mental, it takes away half their value. There is
selfishness even in anxiety whether we shall go to
heaven or not, or whether our souls are immortal
or not. A continual preparation for eternal pro-
gress is the wisest and the happiest way to live here.
If we daily strive to make ourselves fit companions
for angels, we shall be in constant readiness for a
better world, while we make sure of enjoying some
degree of heaven upon this earth ; and, what is still
better, of helping to make it a paradise for others.
Perhaps there is no error of human nature pro-
ductive of so much unhappiness as the indulgence
of temper. Often everything in a household is
made to go wrong through the entire day, because
one member of the family rises in a fretful mood.
An outburst of anger brings a cloud of gloom over
the domestic atmosphere, which is not easily dissi-
pated. Strenuous efforts should be made to guard
against this, especially by the old ; who, as they
lose external attractions, should strive all the more
earnestly to attain that internal beauty which is of
infinitely more value. And here, again, the ques-
tion may be asked, " What am I to do, if I have
naturally a hasty or fretful temper, and if those
around me act in a manner to provoke it ? " In
the first place, strong self-constraint may be made
8* L
178 MORAL HINTS.
to become a habit ; and this, though very difficult
in many cases, is possible to all. People of the
most ungoverned tempers will often become sud-
denly calm and courteous when a stranger enters ;
and they can control their habitual outbreaks, when
they are before people whose good opinion they are
particularly desirous to obtain or preserve. Con-
straint may be made more easy by leaving the
presence of those with whom you are tempted to
jangle. Go out into the open air ; feed animals ;
gather flowers or fruit for the very person you
were tempted to annoy. By thus opening a door
for devils to walk out of your soul, angels will be
sure to walk in. If circumstances prevent your
doing anything of this kind, you can retire to your
own chamber for a while, and there wrestle for vic-
tory over your evil mood. If necessary avocations
render this impossible, time can at least be snatched
for a brief and earnest prayer for help in overcom-
ing your besetting sin ; and prayer is a golden
gate, through which angels are wont to enter.
" And the lady prayed in heaviness,
That looked not for relief ;
But slowly did her succor come,
And a patience to her grief.
" O, there is never sorrow of heart
That shall lack a timely end,
If but to God we turn and ask
Of Him to be our friend."
There is a reason for governing our tempers which
MORAL HINTS. 179
is still more important than our own happiness, or
even the happiness of others. I allude to its in-
fluence on the characters of those around us ; an
influence which may mar their whole destiny here,
and perhaps hinder their progress hereafter. None
of us are sufficiently careful to keep pure and
wholesome the spiritual atmosphere which sur-
rounds every human being, and which must be
more or less inhaled by the spiritual lungs of all
those with whom he enters into the various rela-
tions of life. Jean Paul said : " Newton, who
uncovered his head whenever the name of God
was pronounced, thus became, without words, a
teacher of religion to children." Many a girl has
formed an injudicious marriage, in consequence of
hearing sneering remarks, or vulgar jokes, about
" old maids." Poisonous prejudices against na-
tions, races, sects, and classes are often instilled
by thoughtless incidental expressions. There is
education for evil in the very words u Nigger,"
*« Paddy," " old Jew," " old maid," &c. It is re-
corded of the Rabbi Sera, that when he was asked
how he had attained to such a serene and lovable
old age, he replied : "I have never rejoiced at any
evil which happened to my neighbor ; and I never
called any man by a nickname given to him in
derision or sport."
False ideas with regard to the importance of
wealth and rank are very generally, though often
unconsciously, inculcated by modes of speech, or
180 MORAL HINTS.
habits of action. To treat mere wealth with
more respect than honest poverty ; to speak more
deferentially of a man whose only claim is a dis-
tinguished ancestry, than you do of the faithful
laborer who ditches your meadows, is a slow but
sure process of education, which sermons and cate-
chisms will never be able entirely to undo. It is'
important to realize fully that all merely conven-
tional distinctions are false and illusory ; that only
worth and usefulness can really ennoble man or
woman. If we look at the subject from a rational
point of view, the artificial classifications of society
appear even in a ludicrous light. It would be
considered a shocking violation of etiquette for
the baronet's lady to call upon the queen. The
wife of the wealthy banker, or merchant, cannot
be admitted to the baronet's social circle. The
intelligent mechanic and prosperous farmer is ex-
cluded from the merchant's parlor. The farmer
and mechanic would think they let themselves
down by inviting a worthy day-laborer to their
parties. And the day-laborer, though he were an
ignoramus and a drunkard, would feel authorized
to treat with contempt any intelligent and excel-
lent man whose complexion happened to be black
or brown. I once knew a grocer's wife, who, with
infinite condescension of manner, said to the wife
of her neighbor the cobbler, " Why don't you
come in to see me sometimes ? You need n't
keep away because my house is carpeted all over."
MORAL HINTS. 181
Hannah More tells us that the Duchess of Glouces-
ter, wishing to circulate some tracts and verses,
requested one of her ladies in waiting to stop a
woman who was wheeling a barrow of oranges
past the window, and ask her if she would take
some ballads to sell. " No indeed ! " replied the
orange-woman, with an air of offended dignity.
" I don't do anything so mean as that. I don't
even sell apples." The Duchess was much amused
by her ideas of rank ; but they were in fact no
more absurd than her own. It is the same mean,
selfish spirit which manifests itself through all
these gradations. External rank belongs to the
" phantom dynasties "; and if we wish our chil-
dren to enjoy sound moral health, we should be
careful not to teach any deference for it, either in
our words or our habits. Mrs. Gaskell, in her
sketch of a very conservative and prejudiced Eng-
lish gentlewoman, " one of the olden time," gives
a lovely touch to the picture, indicating that true
natural refinement was not stifled by the prejudices
of rank. Lady Ludlow had, with patronizing
kindness, invited several of her social inferiors to
tea. Among them was the wife of a rich baker,
who, being unaccustomed to the etiquette of such
company, spread a silk handkerchief in her lap,
when she took a piece of cake ; whereupon some
of the curate's wives began to titter, in order to
show that they knew polite manners better than
she did. Lady Ludlow, perceiving this, imme-
182 MORAL HINTS.
diately spread her own handkerchief in her lap ;
and when the baker's wife went to the fireplace
to shake out her crumbs, my lady did the same.
This silent rebuke was sufficient to prevent any
further rudeness to the unsophisticated wife of the
baker. No elaborate rules are necessary to teach
us true natural politeness. We need only remem-
ber two short texts of Scripture : " Do unto others
as ye would that they should do unto you."
" God is your Father, and all ye are brethren."
Elderly people are apt to think that their years
exempt them from paying so much attention to
good manners as the. young are required to do.
On the contrary, they ought to be more careful in
their deportment and conversation, because their
influence is greater. Impure words or stories
repeated by parents or grandparents may make
indelible stains on the minds of their descendants,
and perhaps give a sensual direction to their char-
acters through life. No story, however funny,
should ever be told, if it will leave in the memory
unclean associations, either physically or morally.
A love of gossiping about other people's affairs
is apt to grow upon those who have retired from
the active pursuits of life ; and this is one among
many reasons why it is best to keep constantly
occupied. A great deal of trouble is made in
neighborhoods, from no malicious motives, but
from the mere excitement of telling news, and the
temporary importance derived therefrom. Most
MORAL HINTS. 183
village gossip, when sifted down, amounts to the
little school-girl's definition. Being asked what it
was to bear false witness against thy neighbor, she
replied : " It 's when nobody don't do nothing, and
somebody goes and tells of it." One of the best
and most genial of the Boston merchants, when
he heard people discussing themes of scandal, was
accustomed to interrupt them, by saying : " Don't
talk any more about it ! Perhaps they did n't do
it ; and may be they could n't help it." For my-
self, I deem it the greatest unkindness to be told
of anything said against me. I may prevent its
exciting resentment in my mind ; but the con-
sciousness of not being liked unavoidably disturbs
my relations with the person implicated. There
is no better safeguard against the injurious habit
of gossiping, than the being interested in princi-
ples and occupations ; if you have these to employ
your mind, you will have no inclination to talk
about matters merely personal.
When we reflect that life is so full of neglected
little opportunities to improve ourselves and others,
we shall feel that there is no need of aspiring after
great occasions to do good.
" The trivial round, the common task,
Would furnish all we need to ask ;
Room to deny ourselves, — a road
To bring us daily nearer God."
THE BOYS.
WRITTEN FOR A MEETING OF COLLEGE CLASSMATES.
By OLIVER W. HOLMES.
HAS there any old fellow got mixed with the boys ?
If there has, take him out, without making a
noise !
Hang the Almanac's cheat, and the Catalogue's spite !
Old Time is a liar ! We 're twenty to-night.
We 're twenty ! We 're twenty ! Who says we are
more ?
He 's tipsy, young jackanapes ! Show him the door !
" Gray temples at twenty ? " Yes ! white, if we please ;
Where the snow-flakes fall thickest, there 's nothing
can freeze.
Was it snowing I spoke of? Excuse the mistake !
Look close, — you will see not a sign of a flake ;
We want some new garlands for those we have shed, —
And these are white roses in place of the red.
We 've a trick, we young fellows, you may have been
told,
Of talking (in public) as if we were old ; —
That boy we call "Doctor," and this we call "Judge"; — ■
It 's a neat little fiction, — of course, it 's all fudge.
THE BOYS. 185
That fellow 's " the Speaker," — the one on the right ;
" Mr. Mayor," my young one, how are you to-night ?
That 's our " Member of Congress," we say when we
chaff;
There 's the " Reverend " What 's his name ? Don't
make me laugh !
Yes, we 're boys, — always playing with tongue or with
pen,—
And I sometimes have asked, Shall we ever be men ?
Shall we always be youthful, and laughing and gay,
Till the last dear companion drops smiling away ?
Then here 's to our boyhood, its gold and its gray !
The stars of its Winter, the dews of its May !
And when we have done with our life-lasting toys,
Dear Father, take care of thy children, the Boys !
ODE OF ANACREON.
TRANSLATED FROM THE GREEK.
I love a mellow, cheerful sage,
Whose feelings are unchilled by age ;
I love a youth who dances well
To music of the sounding shell ;
But when a man of years, like me,
Joins with the dancers playfully,
Though age in silvery hair appears,
His heart is young, despite of years.
MYSTERIOUSNESS OF LIFE.
FROM MOUNTFORD S EUTHANASY.
BOUT the world to come, it ought not
to be as though we did not know surely,
because we do not know much. From
the nearest star, our earth, if it is seen,
looks hardly anything at all. It shines, or rather
it twinkles, and that is all. To them afar off, this
earth is only a shining point. But to us who live
in it, it is wide and various. It is sea and land ; it
is Europe, Asia, Africa, and America ; it is the
lair of the lion, and the pasture of the ox, and the
pathway of the worm, and the support of the robin ;
it is what has day and night in it ; it is what cus-
toms and languages obtain in ; it is many coun-
tries ; it is the habitation of a thousand million
men ; and it is our home. All this the world is
to us; though, looked at from one of the stars, it is
only a something that twinkles in the distance. It
is seen only as a few intermittent rays of light ;
though, to us who live in it, it is hill and valley,
MYSTERIOUSNESS OF LIFE. 187
and land and water, and many thousands of miles
wide. So that if the future world is a star of
guidance for us, it is enough ; because it is not for
us to know, but to believe, that it will prove our
dear home.
• • • • • •
We live mortal lives for immortal good. And
really this world is so mysterious, that there is not
one of its commonest ways but is perhaps sublimer
to walk on than we at all think. At night, when
we walk about and see at all, it is by the light of
other worlds ; though we do not often think of this.
It is the same in life. There is many a matter
concerning us that is little thought of, but which is
ours, as it were, from out of the infinite. Yes,
our lives are to be felt as being very great, even in
their nothingness. Even our mortal lives are as
wonderful as immortality. Is the next life a mys-
tery ? So it is. But then how mysterious even
now life is. Food is not all that a man lives by.
There is some way by which food has to turn to
strength in him ; and that way is something else
than his own will. I am hungry, I sit down to a
meal, and I enjoy it. And the next day, from
what I ate and drank for my pleasure, there is
blood in my veins, and moisture on my skin, and
new flesh making in all my limbs. And this is
not my doing or willing ; for I do not even know
how my nails grow from under the skin of my
fingers. I can well believe in my being to live
188 MYSTERIOUSNESS OF LIFE.
hereafter. How, indeed, I am to live, I do not
know ; but, then, neither do I know how I do live
now. When I am asleep, my lungs keep breathing,
my heart keeps beating, my stomach keeps digest-
ing, and my whole body keeps making anew.
And in the morning, when I look in the glass,
it is as though I see myself a new creature ; and
really, for the wonder of it, it is all the same as
though another body had grown about me in my
sleep. This living from day to day is aston-
ishing, when it is thought of ; and
we are let feel the miracle of it,
so, perhaps, that our being
to live again may not
be too wonderful
for our be-
lief.
?
Though there be storm and turbulence on this
earth, one would rise but little way, through the
blackened air, before he would come to a region
of calm and peace, where the stars shine unob-
structed, and where there is no storm. And a
little above our cloud, a little higher than our
darkness, a little beyond our storm, is God's upper
region of tranquil peace and calm. And when
we have had the discipline of winter here, it will
be possible for us to have eternal summer there.
Henry Waed Beecher.
EXTRACTS FROM
THE GRANDxMOTHER'S APOLOGY.
By ALFRED TENNYSON.
AND Willy, my eldest born, is gone you say, little
Ann?
Ruddy and white and strong on his legs, he looks like a
man.
" Here 's a leg for a babe of a week ! " says doctor ; and
he would be bound
There was not his like that year in twenty parishes
round.
Strong of his hands, and strong on his legs, but still of
his tongue!
I ought to have gone before him ; I wonder he went so
young.
I cannot cry for him, Annie ; I have not long to stay ;
Perhaps I shall see him the sooner, for he lived far
away.
Why do you look at me, Annie ? you think I am hard
and cold;
But all my children have gone before me, I am so old i
190 THE GRANDMOTHER'S APOLOGY.
I cannot weep for Willy, nor can I weep for the rest ;
Only at your age, Annie, I could have wept with the
best.
The first child that ever I bore was dead before he was
born:
Shadow and shine is life, little Annie, flower and thorn.
I had not wept, little Annie, not since I had been a
wife;
But I wept like a child, that day; for the babe had
fought for his life.
o
His dear little face was troubled, as if with anger or
pain;
I looked at the still little body, — his trouble had all
been in vain.
For Willy I cannot weep ; I shall see him another
morn ;
But I wept like a child for the child that was dead be-
fore he was born.
But he cheered me, my good man, for he seldom said
me nay:
Kind, like a man, was he ; like a man, too, would have
his way;
Never jealous, — not he : we had many a happy year :
And he died, and I could not weep, — my own time
seemed so near.
But I wished it had been God's will that I, too, then
could have died:
I began to be tired a little, and fain had slept at his
side;
THE GRANDMOTHERS APOLOGY. 191
And that was ten years back, or more, if I don't for-
get:
But as for the children, Annie, they are all about me
yet.
Pattering over the boards, my Annie, who left me at
two;
Patter she goes, my own little Annie, — an Annie like
you.
Pattering over the boards, she comes and goes at her
will,
While Harry is in the five-acre and Charlie ploughing
the hill.
And Harry and Charlie, I hear them, too, — they sing
to their team ;
Often they come to the door in a pleasant kind of
dream.
They come and sit by my chair, they hover about my
bed:
I am not always certain if they be alive or dead.
And yet I know for a truth, there 's none of them left
alive ;
For Harry went at sixty, your father at sixty-five ;
And Willy, my eldest born, at nigh threescore and
ten;
I knew them all as babies, and now they are elderly
men.
For mine is a time of peace ; it is not often I grieve ;
I am oftener sitting at home in my father's farm at
eve;
192 THE GRANDMOTHER'S APOLOGY.
And the neighbors come and laugh and gossip, and so
do I;
I find myself often laughing at things that have long
gone by.
To be sure the preacher says our sins should make us
sad;
But mine is a time of peace, and there is grace to be
had;
And God, not man, is the Judge of us all when life shall
cease ;
And in this Book, little Annie, the message is one of
peace.
And age is a time of peace, so it be free from pain ;
And happy has been my life, but I would not live it
again.
I seem to be tired a little, that 's all, and long for rest ;
Only at your age, Annie, I could have wept with the
best.
So Willy has gone, — my beauty, my eldest born, my
flower ;
But how can I weep for Willy ? he has but gone for an
hour, —
Gone for a minute, my son, from this room into the
next;
I too shall go in a minute. What time have I to be
vext?
THE ANCIENT MAN.
TRANSLATED BY L. O. FROM THE GERMAN OF JEAN PAUL RICH-
TER'S MEMOIR OF FIBEL, AUTHOR OF THE BIENENRODA SPELL-
ING-BOOK.
9
" He is insensibly subdued
To settled quiet. He is one by whom
All effort seems forgotten ; one to whom
Long patience hath such mild composure given,
That patience now doth seem a thing of which
He hath no need. He is by Nature led
To peace so perfect, that the young behold
With envy what the old man hardly feels."
Wordsworth.
AaaI/>^
m
^) HE stream of Fibel's history having
vanished under ground, like a second
river Rhone, I was obliged to explore
fe=^§||^$. where story or stream again burst
forth, and for this purpose I questioned every one.
I was told that no one could better inform me than
an exceedingly aged man, more than a hundred
and twenty-five years old, who lived a few miles
from the village of Bienenroda, and who, having
been young at the same time with Fibel, must
9 M
194 THE ANCIENT MAN.
know all about him. The prospect of shakinor
hands with the very oldest man living on the face
of the earth enraptured me. I said to myself that
a most novel and peculiar sensation must be excited
by having a whole past century before you, bodily
present, compact and alive, in the century now
passing ; by holding, hand to hand, a man of the
age of the antediluvians, over whose head so many
entire generations of young mornings and old even-
ings have fled, and before whom one stands, in fact,
as neither young nor old ; to listen to a human
spirit, outlandish, behind the time, almost mysteri-
ously awful ; sole survivor of the thousand gray,
cold sleepers, coevals of his own remote, hoary
age ; standing as sentinel before the ancient dead,
looking coldly and strangely on life's silly novel-
ties ; finding in the present no cooling for his in-
born spirit-thirst, no more enchanting yesterdays
or to-morrows, but only the day-before-yesterday
of youth, and the day-after- to-morrow of death.
It may consequently be imagined that so very old
a man would speak only of /his farthest past, of
his early day-dawn, which, of course, in the long
evening of his protracted day, must now be blend-
ing with his midnight. On the other hand, that
one like myself would not feel particularly younger
before such a millionnaire of hours, as the Bienen-
roda Patriarch must be ; and that his presence
must make one feel more conscious of death than
of immortality. A very aged man is a more pow-
THE ANCIENT MAN 195
erful memento than a grave ; for the older a grave
is, the farther we look back to the succession of
young persons who have mouldered in it ; some-
times a maiden is concealed in an ancient grave ;
but an ancient dwindled body hides only an im-
prisoned spirit.
An opportunity for visiting the Patriarch was
presented by a return coach-and-six, belonging to
a count, on which I was admitted to a seat with
the coachman. Just before arriving at Bienen-
roda, he pointed with his whip toward an orchard,
tuneful with song, and said, " There sits the old
man with his little animals around him." I sprang
from the noble equipage and went toward him. I
ventured to expect that the Count's six horses
would give me, before the old man, the appear-
ance of a person of rank, apart from the simpli-
city of my dress, whereby princes and heroes are
wont to distinguish themselves from their tinselled
lackeys. I w r as, therefore, a little surprised that
the old man kept on playing with his pet hare,
not even checking the barking of his poodle, as if
counts were his daily bread, until, at last, he lifted
his oil-cloth hat from his head., A buttoned over-
coat, which gave room to see his vest, a long pair
of knit over-alls, which were, in fact, enormous
stockings, and a neckerchief, which hung down
to his bosom, made his dress look modern enough.
His time-worn frame was far more peculiar. The
inner part of the eye, which is black in childhood,
196 THE ANCIENT MAN.
was quite white ; his tallness, more than his years,
seemed to bow him over into an arch ; the out-
turned point of his chin gave to his speech the
appearance of mumbling ; yet the expression of
his countenance was lively, his eyes bright, his
jaws full of white teeth, and his head covered with
light hair.
I began by saying : " I came here solely on your
account to see a man for whom there can assuredlv
be little new under the sun, though he himself is
something very new under it. You are now strict-
ly in your five and twenties ; a man in your best
years ; since after a century a new reckoning com-
mences. For myself, I confess that after once
clambering over the century terminus, or church-
wall of a hundred years, I should neither know
how old I was, nor whether I was myself. I
should begin fresh and free, just as the world's
history has often done, counting again from the
year one, in the middle of a thousand years. Yet
why can not a man live to be as old as is many a
giant tree of India still standing ? It is well to
question very old people concerning the methods
by which they have prolonged their lives. How
do you account for it, dear old sir ? "
I was beginning to be vexed at the good man's
silence, when he softly replied : " Some suppose it
is because I have always been cheerful ; because I
have adopted the maxim, ' Never sad, ever glad ' ;
but I ascribe it wholly to our dear Lord God ; since
THE ANCIENT MAN. 197
the animals, which here surround us, though never
sad, but happy for the most part, by no means so
frequently exceed the usual boundary of their life,
as does man. He exhibits an imao;e of the eternal
God, even in the length of his duration."
Such words concerning God, uttered by a tongue
one hundred and twenty-five years old, had great
weight and consolation ; and I at once felt their
beautiful attraction. On mentioning animals, the
old man turned again to his own ; and, as though
indifferent to him who had come in a coach-and-
six, he began again to play with his menagerie, the
hare, the spaniel, the silky poodle, the starling, and
a couple of turtle-doves on his bosom ; a pleasant
bee-colony in the orchard also gave heed to him ;
with one whistle he sent the bees away,, and with
another summoned them into the ring of crea-
tures, which surrounded him like a court-circle.
At last, he said : " No one need be surprised
that a very old man, who has forgotten everything,
and whom no one but the dear God knows or cares
for, should give himself wholly to the dear ani-
mals. To whom can such an old man be of much
use ? I wander about in the villages, as in cities,
wholly strange. If I see children, they come be-
fore me like my own remote childhood. If I meet
old men, they seem like my past hoary years. I
do not quite know where I now belong. I hang
between heaven and earth. Yet God ever looks
upon me bright and lovingly, with his two eyes,
198 THE ANCIENT MAN.
the sun and the moon. Moreover, animals lead
into no sin, but rather to devotion. When my
turtle-doves brood over their young and feed them,
it seems to me just as if I saw God himself doing
a great deal ; for they derive their love and in-
stinct toward their young, as a gift from him."
The old man became silent, and looked pen-
sively before him, as was his wont. A ringing of
christening bells sounded from Bienenroda among
the trees in the garden. Pie wept a little. I
know not how I could have been so simple, after
the beautiful words he had uttered, as to have mis-
taken his tears for a sign of weakness in his eyes.
" I do not hear well, on account of my great age,"
said he ; " and it seems to me as if the baptismal
bell from the distant sanctuary sounded up here
very faintly. The old years of my childhood,
more than a hundred years ago, ascend from the
ancient depths of time, and gaze on me in wonder,
while I and they know not whether we ought to
weep or laugh." Then, addressing his silky
poodle, he called out, " Ho ! ho ! come here old
fellow ! '
The allusion to his childhood brought me to the
purpose of my visit. " Excellent sir," said I, u I
am preparing the biography of the deceased Master
Gotthelf Fibel, author of the famous Spelling-
Book ; and all I now need to complete it is the
account of his death." The old man smiled, and
made a low bow. I continued, u No one is more
THE ANCIENT MAN. 199
likely to -know the particulars of his decease than
yourself ; and you are the only person who can
enrich me with the rare traits of his childhood ;
because every incident inscribed on a child's brain
grows deeper with years, like names cut into a
gourd, while later inscriptions disappear. Tell
me, I pray you, all that you know concerning the
departed man ; for I am to publish his Life at the
Michaelmas Fair."
He murmured, "Excellent genius; scholar;
man of letters ; author most famous ; these and
other fine titles I learned by heart and applied to
myself, while I was that vain, blinded Fibel, who
wrote and published the ordinary Spelling-Book in
question."
So then, this old man was the blessed Fibel
himself! A hundred and twenty-five notes of
admiration, ay, eighteen hundred and eleven
notes in a row, would but feebly express my as-
tonishment.
[Here follows a long conversation concerning
Fibel, after which the narrative continues as fol-
lows : — ]
The old man went into his little garden-house,
and I followed him. He whistled, and instantly
his black squirrel came down from a tree, whither
it had gone more for pleasure than for food.
Nightingales, thrushes, starlings, and other birds,
flew back into the open window from the tops of
the trees. A bulfinch, whose color had been
200 THE ANCIENT MAN.
changed by age from red to black, strutted about
the room, uttering droll sounds, which it could not
make distinct. The hare pattered about in the
twilight, sometimes on his hind feet, sometimes on
all fours. Every dog in the house bounded for-
ward in glad, loving, human glee. But the most
joyful of all was the poodle ; for he knew he was
to have a box with compartments fastened to his
neck, containing a list of the articles wanted for
supper, which it was his business to bring from the
inn in Bienenroda. He was Fibel's victualler, or
provision-wagon. Children, who ran back and
forth, were the only other ones who ministered to
his wants.
In allusion to his pets, he said : " We ought to
assist the circumscribed faculties of animals, by
educating them, as far as we can, since we stand
toward them, in a certain degree, as their Lord
God ; and we ought to train them to good morals,
too ; for very possibly they may continue to live
after death. God and the animals are always
good ; but not so with man."
Aged men impart spiritual things, as they give
material things, with a shaking hand, which drops
half. In the effort to gather up his recollections,
he permitted me to quicken his memory with my
own ; and thu& I obtained a connected account of
some particulars in his experience. He said he
might have been about a hundred years old, when
he cut a new set of teeth, the pain of which dis-
THE ANCIENT MAN 201
turbed him with wild dreams. One night he
seemed to be holding in his hands a large sieve,
and it was his task to pull the meshes apart, one
by one. The close net-work, and the fastening to
the wooden rim, gave him indescribable trouble.
But as his dream went on, he seemed to hold in
his hand the great bright sun, which flamed up
into his face. He woke with a new-born feeling,
and slumbered again, as if on waving tulips. He
dreamed again that he was a hundred years old,
and that he died as an innocent yearling child,
without any of the sin or woe of earth ; that he
found his parents on high, who brought before him
a long procession of his children, who had re-
mained invisible to him while he was in this world,
because they were transparent, like the angels.
He rose from his bed with new teeth and new
ideas. The old Fibel was consumed, and a true
Phoenix stood in his place, sunning its colored
wings. He had risen glorified out of no other
grave than his own body. The w 7 orld retreated ;
heaven came down.
When he had related these things, he at once
bade me good night. Without waiting for the
return of his ministering poodle, and with hands
folded for prayer, he showed me the road. I with-
drew, but I rambled a long time round the orchard,
which had sprung entirely from seed of his own
planting. Indeed he seldom ate a cherry without
smuggling the stone and burying it in the ground
9*
202 THE ANCIENT MAN.
for a resurrection. This habit often annoyed the
neighboring peasants, who did not want high
things growing on their boundaries. " But," said
he, " I cannot destroy a fruit-stone. If the peas-
ants pull up the tree it produces, it will still have
lived a little while, and die as a child dies."
While loitering in the orchard, I heard an even-
ing hymn played and sung. I returned near
Fibel's window, and saw him slowly turning a
hand-organ, and accompanying the tune by softly
singing an evening hymn. This organ, aided by
his fragment of a voice, sufficed, in its monotonous
uniformity, for his domestic devotion. I went
away repeating the song.
Beautiful was the orchard when I returned the
next morning. And the hoar-frost of age seemed
thawed and fluid, and to glisten only as morning
dew on Fibel's after-blossom. The affection of
his animals toward him rendered the morning still
more beautiful, in an orchard every tree of which
had for its mother the stone of some fruit that he
had enjoyed. His animals were an inheritance
from his parents ; though, of course they were the
great, great, great grandchildren of those which
had belonged to them. The trees were full of
brooding birds, and by a slight whistle he could
lure down to his shoulders this tame posterity of
his father's sino;ino;-school. It was refreshing to
the heart to see how quickly the tender flutterers
surrounded him.
THE ANCIENT MAN. 203
With the infantine satisfaction of a gray-headed
child, he was accustomed to hang up on sticks, or
in the trees, wherever the rays of the sun could
best shine upon them, little balls of colored glass ;
and he took indescribable delight in this accordion
of silver, gold, and jewel hues. These parti-
colored sun-balls, varying the green with many
flaming tints, were like crystal tulip-beds. Some
of the red ones seemed like ripe apples among the
branches. But what charmed the old man most
were reflections of the landscape from these little
world-spheres. They resembled the moving pros-
pects shadowed forth in a diminishing mirror.
" Ah," said he, " when I contemplate the colors
produced by the sunshine, which God gives to this
dark world, it seems to me as if I had departed,
and were already with God. And yet, since He
is in us, we are always with God."
I asked him how it happened that, at his age, he
spoke German almost purer than that used even
by our best writers. Counting his birth from the
end of his century [the new birth described in his
dream], he replied : " I was somewhere about two
years old, when I happened to hear a holy, spir-
itual minister, who spoke German with such an
angel tongue, that he would not have needed a
better in heaven. I heard him every Sabbath
during several years." He could not tell me the
preacher's name, but he vividly described his man-
ner in the pulpit. He told how he spoke with no
204 THE ANCIENT MAN.
superfluity of words, airs, or gestures ; how he
uttered, in mild tones, things the most beautiful
and forcible ; how, like the Apostle John, with his
resting-place close to heaven, this man spoke to
the world, laying his hands calmly on the pulpit-
desk, as an arm-case ; how his every tone was a
heart, and his every look a blessing ; how the
energy of this disciple of Christ was embedded in
love, as the firm diamond is encased in ductile
gold ; how the pulpit was to him a Mount Tabor,
whereon he transfigured both himself and his
hearers ; and how, of all clergymen, he best per-
formed that which is the most difficult, — the
praying worthily.
My feelings grew constantly warmer toward this
time-worn man, while I did not require a full
return of affection from him any more than I
should from a little child. But I remembered that
I ought not to disturb the evening of his days with
things of the world, and that I ought to depart.
I w r ould have him preserve undisturbed that sub-
lime position of old age, where man lives, as it
were, at the pole ; where no star rises or sets ;
where the whole firmament is motionless and clear,
while the Pole-Star of another world shines fixedly
overhead. I therefore said to him, that I would
return in the evening, and take my leave. To my
surprise, he replied, that perhaps he should himself
take leave of the whole world at evening, and that
he wished not to be disturbed when dying. He
THE ANCIENT MAN. 205
said that he should that evening read to the end
of the Revelation of St. John, and perhaps it
might be the end with him also. I ought to have
mentioned previously that he read continually, and
read nothing but the Bible, regularly through from
the beginning to the end ; and he had a fixed im-
pression that he should depart on concluding the
twentieth and twenty-first verses of the twenty-
second chapter of the Revelation of John : " He
which testifieth of these things saith, Surely I come
quickly : Amen. Even so, come, Lord Jesus.
The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ be with you
all. Amen." In consequence of this belief, he
was in the habit of reading the last books of the
Bible faster.
Little as I believed in so sudden a withering of
his protracted after-blossom, I obeyed his latest-
formed wish. Whenever a right wish is expressed
by any man, we should do well to remember that
it may be his last. I took my leave, requesting
him to intrust me with his testamentarv commis-
sions for the village. He said they had been taken
charge of long ago, and the children knew them.
He cut a twig from a Christmas-tree, coeval with
his childhood, and presented me with it as a keep-
sake.
In the beautiful summer evening, I could not re-
frain from stealthily approaching the house, through
the orchard, to ascertain whether the good old man
had ended his Bible and his life together. On the
206 THE ANCIENT MAN.
way, I found the torn envelope of a letter sealed
with a black seal, and over me the white storks
were speeding their way to a warmer country. I
was not much encouraged when I heard all the
birds singing in his orchard ; for their ancestors
had done the same when his father died. A tow-
ering cloud, full of the latest twilight, spread itself
before my short-sighted vision, like a far-off, bloom-
ing, foreign landscape ; and I could not compre-
hend how it was that I had never before noticed
this strange-looking, reddish land ; so much the
more easily did it occur to me that this might be
his Orient, whither God was leading the weary
one. I had become so confused, as actually to
mistake red bean-blossoms for a bit of fallen sunset.
Presently, I heard a man singing to the accompa-
niment of an organ. It was the aged man singing
his evening hymn :
" Lord of my life, another day
Once more hath sped away."
The birds in the room, and those on the distant
branches also, chimed in with his song. The bees,
too, joined in with their humming, as in the warm
summer evening they dived into the cups of the
linden-blossoms. My joy kindled into a flame.
He was alive ! But I would not disturb his holy
evening. I would let him remain with Him who
had surrounded him with gifts and with years, and
not call upon him to think of any man here below.
I listened to the last verse of his hymn, that I
THE ANCIENT MAN. 207
mi^ht be still more certain of the actual continu-
ance of his life, and then tardily I slipped away.
To my joy, I still found, in the eternal youth of
Nature, beautiful references to his lengthened age ;
from the everlasting rippling of the brook in the
meadow, to a late swarm of bees, which had settled
themselves on a linden-tree, probably in the fore-
noon, before two o'clock, as if, by taking their
lodging with him, he was to be their bee-father,
and continue to live. Every star twinkled to me
a hope.
I went to the orchard very early in the morn-
ing, wishing to look upon the aged man in sleep ;
death's ancient prelude, the warm dream of cold
death. But he was reading, and had read, in his
large-printed Bible, far beyond the Deluge, as I
could see by the engravings. I held it to be a duty
not to interrupt his solitude long. I told him I
was going away, and gave him a little farewell
billet, instead of farewell words. I was much
moved, though silent. It was not the kind of
emotion with which we take leave of a friend, or a
youth, or an old man ; it was like parting from a
remote stranger-being, who scarcely glances at us
from the high, cold clouds which hold him between
the earth and the sun. There is a stillness of soul
which resembles the stillness of bodies on a frozen
sea, or on high mountains ; every loud tone is an
interruption too prosaically harsh, as in the softest
adagio. Even those words, u for the last time,"
208 THE ANCIENT MAN.
the old man had long since left behind him. Yet
he hastily presented to me my favorite flower, a
blue Spanish vetch, in an earthen pot. This but-
terfly-flower is the sweeter, inasmuch as it so easily
exhales its perfume and dies. He said he had not
yet sung the usual morning-hymn, which followed
the survival of his death-evening ; and he begged
me not to take it amiss that he did not accompany
me, or even once look after me, especially as he
could not see very well. He then added, almost
with emotion, " O friend, may you live virtu-
ously ! We shall meet again, where my departed
relatives will be present, and also that great
preacher, whose name I have forgotten. We
meet again."
He turned immediately, quite tranquilly, to his
organ. I parted from him, as from a life. He
played on his organ beneath the trees, and his face
was turned toward me ; but to his dim eves I
knew that I should soon become as a motionless
cloud. So I remained until he began his morning
hymn, from old Neander :
" The Lord still leaves me living,
I hasten Him to praise ;
My joyful spirit giving,
He hears my early lays."
While he was singing, the birds flew round him ;
the dogs accustomed to the music, were silent ;
and it even wafted the swarm of bees into their
hive. Bowed down as he was by age, his figure
THE ANCIENT MAN. 209
was so tall, that from the distance where I stood
he looked sufficiently erect. I remained until the
old man had sung the twelfth and last verse of his
morning hymn :
" Beady my course to finish,
And come, God, to Thee ;
A conscience pure I cherish,
Till death shall summon me."
Nothing of God's making can a man love
rightly, without being the surer of God's loving
himself; neither the moon, nor the stars, nor a
rock, nor a tree, nor a flower, nor a bird. Not
the least grateful of my thanksgivings have been
hymns that have come to my lips while I have been
listening to the birds of an evening. Only let us
love what God loves, and then His love of our-
selves will feel certain, and the sight of his face
we shall be sure of ; and immortality, and heaven,
and the freedom of the universe, will be as easy for
us to believe in, as a father's giving good gifts to
his children. — Mountford.
MILTON'S HYMN OF PATIENCE.
By ELIZABETH LLOYD HOWELL.
I AM old and blind !
Men point at me as smitten by God's frown ;
Afflicted, and deserted of my kind,
Yet I am not cast down.
I am weak, yet strong ;
I murmur not, that I no longer see ;
Poor, old, and helpless, I the more belong,
Father supreme ! to thee.
O merciful One !
When men are farthest, then thou art most near ;
When friends pass by, my weaknesses to shun,
Thy chariot I hear.
Thy glorious face
Is leaning towards me, and its holy light
Shines in upon my lonely dwelling-place ;
And there is no more night.
On my bended knees,
I recognize thy purpose, clearly shown ;
My vision thou hast dimmed, that I may see
Thyself, thyself alone.
MILTON'S HYMN OF PATIENCE. 211
I have naught to fear ;
This darkness is the shadow of thy wing ;
Beneath it I am almost sacred ; here
Can come no evil thing.
O, I seem to stand
Trembling, where foot of mortal ne'er hath been ;
Wrapped in the radiance from the sinless land,
"Which eye hath never seen.
Visions come and go ;
Shapes of resplendent beauty round me throng ;
From angel lips I seem to hear the flow
Of soft and holy song.
It is nothing now, —
When heaven is opening on my sightless eyes,
When airs from paradise refresh my brow, —
That earth in darkness lies.
In a purer clime,
My being fills with rapture ! waves of thought
Roll in upon my spirit ! strains sublime
Break over me unsought.
Give me now my lyre !
I feel the stirrings of a gift divine ;
Within my bosom glows unearthly fire,
Lit by no skill of mine.
LETTER FROM AN OLD WOMAN,
ON HER BIRTHDAY.
By L. MARIA CHILD.
OU ask me, dear friend, whether it does
not make me sad to grow old. I tell
you frankly it did make me sad for a
while ; but that time has long since
past. The name of being old I never dreaded. I
am not aware that there ever was a time when
I should have made the slightest objection to hav-
ing my age proclaimed by the town-crier, if people
had had any curiosity to know it. But I suppose
every human being sympathizes with the senti-
ment expressed by Wordsworth :
" Life's Autumn past, I stand on Winter's verge,
And daily lose what I desire to keep."
The first white streaks in my hair, and the
spectre of a small black spider floating before my
eyes, foreboding diminished clearness of vision,
certainly did induce melancholy reflections. At
LETTER FROM AN OLD WOMAN. 213
that period, it made me nervous to think about the
approaches of old age ; and when young people
thoughtlessly reminded me of it, they cast a shadow
over the remainder of the day. It was mournful
as the monotonous rasping of crickets, which tells
that " the year is wearing from its prime." I
dreaded age in the same way that I always dread
the coming of winter ; because I want to keep the
light, the warmth, the flowers, and the growth of
summer. But; after all, when winter comes, I
soon get used to him, and am obliged to acknowl-
edge that he is a handsome old fellow, and by no
means destitute of pleasant qualities. And just
so it has proved with old age. Now that it has
come upon me, I find it full of friendly compensa-
tions for all that it takes away.
The period of sadness and nervous dread on
this subject, which I suppose to be a very general
experience, is of longer or shorter duration, ac-
cording to habits previously formed. From ob-
servation, I judge that those whose happiness
has mainly depended on balls, parties, fashionable
intercourse, and attentions flattering to vanity,
usually experience a prolonged and querulous sad-
ness, as years advance upon them ; because, in the
nature of things, such enjoyments pass out of
the reach of the old, when it is too late to form a
taste for less transient pleasures. The temporary
depression to which I have alluded soon passed
from my spirit, and I attribute it largely to the
214 LETTER FROM AN OLD WOMAN,
fact that I have always been pleased with very
simple and accessible things. I always shudder a
little at the approach of winter ; yet, when it
comes, the trees, dressed in feathery snow, or pris-
matic icicles, give me far more enjoyment, than I
could find in a ball-room full of duchesses, decor-
ated with marabout-feathers, opals, and diamonds.
No costly bridal-veil sold in Broadway would in-
terest me so much as the fairy lace-work which
frost leaves upon the windows, in an unceasing
variety of patterns. The air, filled with minute
snow-stars, falling softly, ever falling, to beautify
the earth, is to me a far lovelier sight, than would
have been Prince Esterhazy, who dropped seed-
pearls from his embroidered coat, as he moved in
the measured mazes of the dance.
Speaking of the beautiful phenomenon of snow,
reminds me how often the question has been asked
what snow is, and what makes it. I have never
seen a satisfactory answer ; but I happen to know
what snow is, because I once saw the process of
its formation. I was at the house of a Quaker,
whose neat wife washed in an unfinished back-
room all winter, that the kitchen might be kept in
good order. I passed through the wash-room on
the 16th of December, 1835, a day still remem-
bered by many for its remarkable intensity of cold.
Clouds of steam, rising from the tubs and boiling
kettle, ascended to the ceiling, and fell from thence
in the form of a miniature snow-storm. Here
ON HER BIRTHDAY. 215
was an answer to the question, What is snow ?
This plainly proved it to be frozen vapor, as ice is
frozen water. The particles of water, expanded
by heat, and floating in the air, were arrested in
their separated state, and congealed in particles.
It does not snow when the weather is intensely
cold ; for the lower part of the atmosphere must
have some degree of warmth, if vapor is floating
in it. When this vapor ascends, and meets a
colder stratum of air, it is congealed, and falls
downward in the form of snow.
" The snow ! The snow ! The beautiful snow ! "
How handsome do meadows and fields look in
their pure, sparkling robe ! I do not deny that
the winter of the year and the winter of life both
have intervals of dreariness. The miserere howled
by stormy winds is not pleasing to the ear, nor are
the cold gray river and the dark brown hills re-
freshing to the eye. But the reading of Whittier's
Psalm drowns the howling of the winds, as " the
clear tones of a bell are heard above the carts and
drays of a city." Even simple voices of mutual
affection, by the fireside, have such musical and
pervasive power, that the outside storm often
passes by unheard. The absence of colors in the
landscape is rather dismal, especially in the latter
part of the winter. Shall I tell you what I do
when I feel a longing for bright hues ? I suspend
glass prisms in the windows, and they make the
light blossom into rainbows all over the room.
216 LETTER FROM AN OLD WOMAN,
Childish ! you will say. I grant it. But is child-
ishness the greatest folly ? I told you I was
satisfied with very simple pleasures ; and whether
it be wise or not, I consider it great good fortune.
It is more fortunate certainly to have home-made
rainbows within, especially when one is old ; but
even outward home-made rainbows are not to be
despised, when flowers have hidden themselves,
and the sun cannot manifest his prismatic glories,
for want of mediums appropriate for their trans-
mission.
But Nature does not leave us long to pine for
variety. Before the snow-lustre quite passes away,
March comes, sombre in dress, but with a cheerful
voice of promise :
" The beechen buds begin to swell,
And woods the blue-bird's warble know."
Here and there a Lady's Delight peeps forth, smil-
ing at me " right peert," as Westerners say ; and
the first sight of the bright little thing gladdens my
heart, like the crowing of a babe. The phenomena
of spring have never yet failed to replenish the
fountains of my inward life :
" Spring still makes spring in the mind,
When sixty years are told ;
Love wakes anew this throbbing heart,
And we are never old."
As the season of Nature's renovation advances, it
multiplies within me spiritual photographs, never
to be destroyed. Last year I saw a striped squirrel
ON HER BIRTHDAY. 217
hopping along with a green apple in his paws,
hugged up to his pretty little white breast. My
mind daguerrotyped him instantaneously. It is
there now ; and I expect to find a more vivid copy
when my soul opens its portfolio of pictures in the
other world.
The wonders which summer brings are more
and more suggestive of thought as I grow older.
What mysterious vitality, what provident care,
what lavishness of ornament, does Nature mani-
fest, even in her most common productions ! Look
at a dry bean-pod, and observe what a delicate lit-
tle strip of silver tissue is tenderly placed above
and below the seed ! Examine the clusters of
Sweet- Williams, and you will find an endless vari-
ety of minute embroidery-patterns, prettily dotted
into the petals with diverse shades of colors. The
shining black seed they produce look all alike ;
but scatter them in the ground, and there will
spring forth new combinations of form and color,
exceeding the multiform changes of a kaleidoscope.
I never can be sufficiently thankful that I early
formed the habit of working in the garden with
loving good- will. It has contributed more than
anything else to promote healthiness of mind and
body.
Before one has time to observe a thousandth
part of the miracles of summer, winter appears
again, in ermine and diamonds, lavishly scattering
his pearls. My birthday comes at this season,
10
218 LETTER FROM AN OLD WOMAN,
and so I accept his jewels as a princely largess
peculiarly bestowed upon myself. The day is kept
as a festival. That is such a high-sounding expres-
sion, that it may perhaps suggest to you recep-
tion-parties, complimentary verses, and quantities
of presents. Very far from it. Not more than
half a dozen people in the world know when the
day occurs, and they do not all remember it. As
I arrive at the new milestone on my pilgrimage, I
generally find that a few friends have placed gar-
lands upon it. My last anniversary was distin-
guished by a beautiful novelty. An offering came
from people who never knew me personally, but
who were gracious enough to say they took an
interest in me on account of my writings. That
was a kindness that carried me over into my new
year on fairy wings ! I always know that the
flowers in such garlands are genuine ; for those
who deal in artificial roses are not in the habit of
presenting them to secluded old people, without
wealth or power. I have heard of a Parisian lady,
who preferred Nattier's manufactured roses to those
produced by Nature, because they were, as she
said, " more like what a rose ought to be." But I
never prefer artificial things to natural, even if
they are more like what they ought to be. So I
rejoice over the genuineness of the offerings which
I find on the milestone, and often give preference
to the simplest of them all. I thankfully add them
to my decorations for the annual festival, which is
ON HER BIRTHDAY. 219
kept in the private apartments of my own soul,
where six angel-guests present themselves unbid-
den, — Use and Beauty, Love and Memory, Humil-
ity and Gratitude. The first suggests to me to
consecrate the advent of a new year in my life
by some acts of kindness toward the sad, the op-
pressed, or the needy. Another tells me to collect
all the books, engravings, vases, &c, bestowed by
friendly hands on the preceding birthdays of my
life. Their beauties of thought, of form, and of
color, excite my imagination, and fill me with con-
templations of the scenes they represent, or the
genius that produced them. Other angels bring
back the looks and tones of the givers, and pleas-
ant incidents, and happy meetings, in bygone years.
Sometimes, Memory looks into my eyes too sadly,
and I answer the look with tears. But I say to
her, Nay, my friend, do not fix upon me that
melancholy gaze ! Give me some of thy flowers !
Then, with a tender, moonlight smile, she brings
me a handful of fragrant roses, pale, but beautiful.
The other angels bid me remember who bestowed
the innumerable blessings of Nature and Art, of
friendship, and capacity for culture, and how un-
worthy I am of all His goodness. They move my
heart to earnest prayer that former faults may be
forgiven, and that I may be enabled to live more
worthily during the year on which I am entering.
But I do not try to recall the faults of the past,
lest such meditations should tend to make me weak
220 LETTER FROM AN OLD WOMAN,
for the future. I have learned that self-conscious-
ness is not a healthy state of mind, on whatever
theme it employs itself. Therefore, I pray the
all-loving Father to enable me to forget myself ;
not to occupy my thoughts with my own merits,
or my own defects, my successes, or my disap-
pointments ; but to devote my energies to the
benefit of others, as a humble instrument of his
goodness, in whatever way He may see fit to point
out.
On this particular birthday, I have been think-
ing more than ever of the many compensations
which age brings for its undeniable losses. I count
it something to know, that, though the flowers
offered me are few, they are undoubtedly genuine.
I never conformed much to the world's ways, but,
now that I am an old woman, I feel more free to
ignore its conventional forms, and neglect its fleet-
ing fashions. That also is a privilege. Another
compensation of years is, that, having outlived ex-
pectations, I am free from disappointments. I
deem it a great blessing, also, that the desire for
knowledge grows more active, as the time for
acquiring it diminishes, and as, I realize more fully
how much there is to be learned. It is true that
in this pursuit one is always coming up against
walls of limitation. All sorts of flying and creep-
ing things excite questions in my mind to which I
obtain no answers. I want to know what every
bird and insect is doing, and what it is done for ;
ON HER BIRTHDAY. 221
but I do not understand their language, and no in-
terpreter between us is to be found. They go on,
busily managing their own little affairs, far more
skilfully than we humans could teach them, with
all our boasted superiority of intellect. I peep and
pry into their operations with more and more in-
terest, the older I grow ; but they keep their own
secrets so well, that I discover very little. What
I do find out, however, confirms my belief, that
" the hand which made them is divine " ; and that
is better than any acquisitions of science. Looking
upon the world as a mere spectacle of beauty, I
find its attractions increasing. I notice more than
I ever did the gorgeous phantasmagoria of sunsets,
the magical changes of clouds, the endless varieties
of form and color in the flowers of garden and field,
and the shell-flowers of the sea. Something of
tenderness mingles with the admiration excited by
all this fair array of earth, like the lingering, fare-
well gaze we bestow on scenes from which we are
soon to part.
But the most valuable compensations of age are
those of a spiritual character. I have committed
so many faults myself, that I have become more
tolerant of the faults of others than I was when I
was young. My own strength has so often failed
me when I trusted to it, that I have learned to
look more humbly for aid from on high. I have
formerly been too apt to murmur that I was not
endowed with gifts and opportunities, which it ap-
222 LETTER FROM AN OLD WOMAN.
peared to me would have been highly advantageous.
But I now see the wisdom and goodness of our
Heavenly Father, even more in what He has de-
nied, than in what He has bestowed. The rugged
paths through which I have passed, the sharp re-
grets I have experienced, seem smoother and softer
in the distance behind me. Even my wrong-doings
and short-comings have often been mercifully trans-
muted into blessings. They have helped me to
descend into the Valley of Humility, through which
it is necessary to pass on our way to the Beautiful
City. My restless aspirations are quieted. They
are now all concentrated in this one prayer :
" Help me, this and every day,
To live more nearly as I pray."
Having arrived at this state of peacefulness and
submission, I find the last few years the happiest
of my life.
To you, my dear friend, who are so much
younger, I would say, Travel cheerfully toward
the sunset ! It will pass gently into a twilight,
which has its own peculiar beauties, though
differing from the morning ; and you
will find that the night also
is cheered by friendly
glances of the
stars.
BRIGHT DAYS IN WINTER.
By J. G. WHITTIER.
BLAND as the morning's breath of June,
The southwest breezes play,
And through its haze, the winter noon
Seems warm as summer's day.
The snow-plumed Angel of the North
Has dropped his icy spear ;
Again the mossy earth looks forth,
Again the streams gush clear.
The fox his hillside den forsakes ;
The muskrat leaves his nook ;
The blue-bird, in the meadow-brakes,
Is singing with the brook.
" Bear up, Mother Nature ! " cry
Bird, breeze, and streamlet free ;
" Our winter voices prophesy
Of summer days to thee."
So in these winters of the soul,
By wintry blasts and drear
224 BRIGHT DAYS IN WINTER.
O'erswept from Memory's frozen pole,
Will summer days appear.
Reviving hope and faith, they show
The soul its living powers,
And how, beneath the winter's snow,
Lie germs of summer flowers.
The Night is mother of the Day ;
The Winter of the Spring ;
And ever upon old decay
The greenest mosses cling.
Behind the cloud the starlight lurks ;
Through showers the sunbeams fall ;
For God, who loveth all his works,
Has left his Hope with all.
THE CANARY BIRD.
YELLOW, small Canary bird,
Sweetly singing all day long,
Still in winter you are heard,
Carolling a summer song.
Thus when days are drear and dim,
And the heart is caged, as you,
May it still, with hopeful hymn,
Sing of joy and find it true.
John Sterling.
OLD BACHELORS,
By L. MARIA CHILD.
fljl® HE use of the term old bachelor might
be objected to, with as much reason
as that of old maid, were it not for
the fact that it has been regarded less
contemptuously. Until within the last half-cen-
tury, books have been written almost entirely by
men. Looking at the subject from their point of
view, they have generally represented that, if a
woman remained single, it was because she could
not avoid it ; and that her unfortunate condition
was the consequence of her being repulsive in
person or manners. The dramas and general
literature of all countries abound with jokes on
this subject. Women are described as jumping
with ridiculous haste at the first chance to marry,
and as being greatly annoyed if no chance presents
itself. To speak of women as in the market, and
of men as purchasers, has so long been a general
habit, that it is done unconsciously ; and the habit
10* o
226 OLD BACHELORS.
doubtless embodies a truth, though few people
reflect why it is so. Nearly all the trades, pro-
fessions, and offices are engrossed by men ; hence
marriage is almost the only honorable means of
support for women, and almost the only avenue
open to those who are ambitious of position in
society. This state of things gives an unhealthy
stimulus to match-making, and does much to de-
grade the true dignity and purity of marriage.
But I allude to it here merely as explanatory why
old maid is considered a more reproachful term
than old bachelor ; one being supposed to be in-
curred voluntarily, and the other by compulsion.
There is a germ of vanity, more or less expanded
in human nature, under all circumstances. Slaves
are often very vain of bringing an unusually high
price in the market ; because it implies that they
are handsome, vigorous, or intelligent. It is the
same feeling, manifested under a different aspect,
that makes many women vain of the number
of offers they have received, and mortified if they
have had none. Men, on the contrary, being
masters of the field, are troubled with no sense of
shame, if they continue in an isolated position
through life, though they may experience regret.
The kind of jokes to which they are subjected
generally imply that they have been less magnani-
mous than they should have been, in not taking
to themselves somebody to protect and support.
Such a " railing accusation " is rather gratifying
OLD BACHELORS. 227
to the pride of human nature. Instead of hang-
ing their heads, they sometimes smile, and say,
with an air of gracious condescension : u Perhaps
I may some day. I have not decided yet. I
want to examine the market further." Now it is
ten chances to one, that the individual thus speak-
ing has heen examining the market, as he calls it,
for a long time ; that he has been to the Fair, and
tried to appropriate various pretty articles, but has
been told that they were reserved for a previous
purchaser. He may have been disappointed on
such occasions ; and if they occurred when youth
was passing away, he may have been prompted to
look in the mirror, to pull out gray hairs, and as-
certain, whether crows have been walking over his
face. But if he perceives traces of their feet, he
says to himself, " Pshaw ! What consequence is
it, so long as I have a full purse and a handsome
house to offer ? I shall have better luck next
time. There are as good fish in the sea as ever
were caught. One only needs to have bait on the
hook." And so when a married acquaintance
reminds him that he ought to take a wife, he
answers, complacently, " Perhaps I shall. I want
to examine the market." He is the one to confer
support ; he need not wait to be asked. There
is a dignified independence in such a position.
Hence the term old bachelor is not so opprobrious
as old maid, and no apology is necessary for
using it.
228 OLD BACHELORS.
It is true, the single brotherhood are not without
their annoyances. A meddlesome woman will
sometimes remark to a bachelor friend, in a sig-
nificant sort of way, that the back of his coat has
a one-eyed look, by reason of the deficiency of a
button ; and she will add, in a compassionate tone,
" But what else can be expected, when a man has
no wife to look after him ? " Another, still more
mischievous, who happens to know of his attend-
ing the Fair, and trying to buy various articles
otherwise appropriated, will sometimes offer im-
pertinent consolation ; saying, " Don't be discour-
aged. Try again. Perhaps you '11 have better
luck next time. You know the proverb says,
There never was so silly a Jack but there 's as
silly a Gill." Then again, the French phrase for
old bachelor, Vieux Grargon, translates itself into
right impudent English. Why on earth should a
man be called the Old Boy, merely because he has
not seen fit to marry ? when it is either because
he don't like the market, or wants to look further,
in order to make sure of getting his money's
worth in the article.
I have spoken facetiously, but it may well be
excused. Women have for so many generations
been the subject of pitiless jokes, rung through all
manner of changes, and not always in the best
taste, that it is pardonable to throw back a few
jests, provided it be done in sport, rather than in
malice. The simple fact is, however, that what I
OLD BACHELORS. 229
have said of unmarried women is also true of un-
married men ; their being single is often the result
of superior delicacy and refinement of feeling.
Those who are determined to marry, will usually
accomplish their object, sooner or later, while
those who shrink from making wedlock a mere
convenience, unsanctified by affection, will prefer
isolation, though they sometimes find it sad. I
am now thinking of one, who, for many reasons
would probably be accepted by ninety-nine women
out of a hundred. I once said to him, " How is
it, that a man of your domestic tastes and affec-
tionate disposition has never married ? " He
hesitated a moment, then drew from under his
vest the miniature of a very lovely woman, and
placed it in my hand. I looked up with an
inquiring glance, to which he replied : " Yes,
perhaps it might have been ; perhaps it ought to
have been. But I had duties to perform toward
my widowed mother, which made me doubt
whether it were justifiable to declare my feelings
to the young lady. Meanwhile, another offered
himself. She married him, and is, I believe,
happy. I have never seen another woman who
awakened in me the same feelings, and so I have
remained unmarried." ,
I knew twin brothers, who became attached to
the same lady. One was silent, for his brother's
sake ; but he never married ; and through life he
loved and assisted his brother's children, as if they
230 OLD BACHELORS.
had been his own. There are many such facts to
prove that self-sacrifice and constancy are far from
being exclusively feminine virtues.
But my impression is, that there is a larger pro-
portion of unmarried women than of unmarried
men, who lead unselfish, useful lives. I, at least,
have happened to know of more " Aunt Kindlys,'*
than Uncle Kindlys. Women, by the nature of
their in-door habits and occupations, can nestle
themselves into the inmost of other people's fami-
lies, much more readily than men. The house-
hold inmate, who cuts paper-dolls to amuse fretful
children, or soothes them with lullabies when they
are tired, — who sews on buttons for the father,
when he is in a hurry, or makes goodies for the in-
valid mother, — becomes part and parcel of the
household ; whereas a bachelor is apt to be a sort
of appendage ; beloved and agreeable, perhaps, but
still something on the outside. He is like moss on
the tree, very pretty and ornamental, especially
when lighted up by sunshine ; but no inherent
part of the tree, essential to its growth. Some-
times, indeed, one meets with a genial old bachelor,
who cannot enter the house of a married friend, or
relative, without having the children climb into his
lap, pull out his watch, and search his pocket for
sugar-plums. But generally, it must be confessed
that a Vieux Crargon acts like an Old Boy when
he attempts to make himself useful in the house.
His efforts to quiet crying babies are laughable,
OLD BACHELORS. 231
and invariably result in making the babies cry
more emphatically. A dignified, scholastic bache-
lor, who had been spending the night with a mar-
ried friend, was leaving his house after breakfast,
when a lovely little girl of four or five summers
peeped from the shrubbery, and called out, " Good
morning ! " " Good morning, child ! ' replied he,
with the greatest solemnity of manner, and passed
on. A single woman would have said, " Good
morning, dear ! " or " Good morning, little one ! '
But the bachelor was as dignified as if he had
been making an apostrophe to the stars. Yet he
had a great, kind heart, and was a bachelor be-
cause that heart was too refined to easily forget a
first impression.
Bachelors do not become an outside appendage,
if they are fortunate enough to have an unmarried
sister, with whom they can form one household.
There is such a couple in my neighborhood, as
cozy and comfortable as any wedded pair, and
quite as unlikely to separate, as if the law bound
them together. The sister is a notable body, who
does well whatever her hands find to do ; and the
brother adopts wise precautions against tedious
hours. He was a teacher in his youth, but is a
miller now. An old mill is always a picturesque
object, standing as it must in the midst of running
water, whose drops sparkle and gleam in sunlight
and moonlight. And our bachelor's mill is hidden
in a wood, where birds love to build their nests, and
232 OLD BACHELORS.
innumerable insects are busy among ferns and
mosses. The miller is busy, too, with a lathe to
fill up the moments unoccupied by the work of the
mill. He has made a powerful telescope for him-
self, and returns to his home in the evening to
watch the changing phases of the planets, or to
entertain his neighbors with a vision of Saturn sail-
ing through boundless fields of ether in his beautiful
luminous ring. He can also discourse sweet music
to his sister, by means of a parlor seraphine.
I know another bachelor, who finds time to be a
benefactor to his neighborhood, though his life is
full of labors and cares. In addition to the per-
petual work of a farm, he devotes himself with filial
tenderness to a widowed mother and invalid aunts,
and yet he is always ready wherever help or sym-
pathy is needed. If a poor widow needs wood cut,
he promptly supplies the want, and few men with
a carriage and four are so ready to furnish a horse
for any kindly service. The children all know his
sleigh, and call after him for a ride. None of his
animals have the forlorn, melancholy look which
indicates a hard master. The expression of his
countenance would never suggest to any one the
condition of an old bachelor ; on the contrary, you
would suppose he had long been accustomed to
look into the eyes of little ones clambering upon
his knees for a kiss. This is because he adopts all
little humans into his heart.
I presume it will generally be admitted that
OLD BACHELORS. 233
bachelors are more apt to be epicures, than are un-
married women. In the first place, they have fewer
details of employment to occupy their thoughts per-
petually ; and secondly, they generally have greater
pecuniary means for self-indulgence. The gour-
mand, who makes himself unhappy, and disturbs
everybody around him, if his venison is cooked the
fortieth part of a minute too long, is less agreeable,
and not less ridiculous than the old fop, who wears
false whiskers, and cripples his feet with tight
boots.
There is a remedy for this, and for all other self-
ishness and vanity ; it is to go out of ourselves,
and be busy with helping others. Petty annoy-
ances slip away and are forgotten when the mind
is thus occupied. The wealthy merchant would
find it an agreeable variation to the routine of
business to interest himself in the welfare and im-
provement of the sailors he employs. The pros-
perous farmer would find mind and heart enlarged
by helping to bring into general use new and im-
proved varieties of fruits and vegetables ; not for
mere money-making, but for the common good.
And all would be happier for taking an active
interest in the welfare of their country, and the
progress of the world.
Nothing can be more charming than Dickens's
description of the Cheeryble Brothers, " whose
goodness was so constantly a diffusing of itself over
everywhere."
234 OLD BACHELORS.
a i
Brother Ned,' said Mr. Cheeryble, tapping
with his knuckles, and stooping to listen, ' are
you busy, my dear brother ? or can you spare time
for a word or two with me ? '
" ' Brother Charles, my dear fellow,' replied a
voice from within, 4 don't ask me such a question,
but come in directly.' Its tones were so exactly
like that which had just spoken, that Nicholas
started, and almost thought it was the same.
" They went in without further parley. What
was the amazement of Nicholas, when his con-
ductor advanced and exchanged a warm greet-
ing with another old gentleman, the very type
and model of himself; the same face, the same
figure, the same coat, waistcoat, and neckcloth, the
same breeches and gaiters ; nay, there was the
very same white hat hanging against the wall. No-
body could have doubted their being twin brothers.
As they shook each other by the hand, the face of
each lighted up with beaming looks of affection,
which would have been most delightful to behold
in infants, and which in men so old was inexpres-
sibly touching.
u 4 Brother Ned,' said Charles, ' here is a young
friend that we must assist. We must make proper
inquiries into his statements, and if they are con-
firmed, as they will be, we must assist him.'
" ' It is enough, my dear brother, that you say
we should. When you say that, no further in-
quiries are needed. He shall be assisted.'
OLD BACHELORS. 235
"'I've a plan, my dear brother, I've a plan,'
said Charles. ' Tim Linkinwater is getting old ;
and Tim has been a faithful servant, brother Ned ;
and I don't think pensioning Tim's mother and
sister, and buying a little tomb for the family when
his poor brother died, was a sufficient recompense
for his faithful services.'
" ' No, no,' replied the other, ' not half enough ;
not half.'
" ' If we could lighten Tim's duties,' said the
old gentleman, ' and prevail upon him to go into
the country now and then, and sleep in the fresh
air two or three times a week, Tim Linkinwater
would grow young again in time ; and he 's three
good years our senior now. Old Tim Linkinwa-
ter young again ! Eh, brother Ned, eh ? Why,
I recollect old Tim Linkinwater quite a little boy ;
don't you ? Ha, ha, ha ! Poor Tim ! Poor Tim ! '
and the fine old fellows laughed pleasantly together ;
each with a tear of regard for old Tim Linkinwa-
ter standing in his eye.
" ' But you must hear this young gentleman's
story,' said Charles ; ' you '11 be very much af-
fected, brother Ned, remembering the time when
we were two friendless lads, and earned our first
shilling in this great city.'
" The twins pressed each other's hands in silence,
and, in his own homely manner, Charles related
the particulars he had just heard from Nicholas.
It is no disparagement to the young man to say,
236 OLD BACHELORS.
that, at every fresh expression of their kindness and
sympathy, he could only wave his hand and sob
like a child.
" i But we are keeping our young friend too
long, my dear brother,' said Charles. ' His poor
mother and sister will be anxious for his return.
So good by for the present. Good by. No, not
a word now. Good by.' And the brothers hur-
ried him out, shaking hands with him all the way,
and affecting, very unsuccessfully (for they were
poor hands at deception), to be wholly unconscious
of the feelings that mastered him.
" The next day, he was appointed to the vacant
stool in the counting-house of Cheeryble Brothers,
with a salary of one hundred and twenty pounds
a year. * And I think, my dear brother,' said
Charles, 4 that if we were to let them that little
cottage at Bow, something under the usual rent —
Eh, brother Ned ? '
" c For nothing at all,' said his brother, ' We
are rich, and should be ashamed to touch the rent
under such circumstances as these. For nothing
at all, my dear brother.'
" ' Perhaps it would be better to say something,'
suggested the other, mildly. ' We might say fif-
teen or twenty pound ; and if it was punctually
paid, make it up to them in some other way. It
would help to preserve habits of frugality, you
know, and remove any painful sense of over-
whelming obligation. And I might secretly ad-
OLD BACHELORS. 237
vance a small loan toward a little furniture ; and
you might secretly advance another small loan,
brother Ned. And if we find them doing well we
can change the loans into gifts ; carefully, and by
degrees, without pressing upon them too much.
What do you say now, brother ? '
" Brother Ned gave his hand upon it, and not
only said it should be done, but had it done. And
in one short week, Nicholas took possession of his
stool, and his mother and sister took possession of
the house ; and all was hope, bustle, and light-
headedness."
There are Cheeryble old bachelors in real life ;
genial souls, and genuine benefactors to mankind.
When they are so, I think they deserve
more credit than married men of similar
characters ; for the genial virtues
are fostered by kindly domes-
tic influences, as fruit is
matured and sweet-
ened by the
sunshine.
The dog in the kennel growls at his fleas ; the
dog that is busy hunting does not feel them.
Chinese Proverb.
TAKING IT EASY
By GEORGE H. CLARK.
ADMIT that I am slightly bald,—
Pray, who 's to blame for that ?
And who is wiser for the fact,
Until I lift my hat?
Beneath the brim my barbered locks
Fall in a careless way,
Wherein my watchful wife can spy
No lurking threads of gray.
What though, to read compactest print,
I 'm forced to hold my book
A little farther off than when
Life's first degree T took ?
A yoke of slightly convex lens
The needful aid bestows,
And you should see how wise I look
With it astride my nose.
Don't talk of the infernal pangs
That rheumatism brings !
TAKING IT EASY. 239
I 'm getting used to pains and aches,
And all those sort of things.
And when the imp Sciatica
Makes his malicious call,
I do not need an almanac
To tell me it is fell.
Besides, it gives one quite an air
To travel with a cane,
And makes folk think you " well to do,"
Although you are in pain.
A fashionable hat may crown
Genteelest coat and vest,
But ah ! the sturdy stick redeems
And sobers all the rest.
A man deprived of natural sleep
Becomes a stupid elf,
And only steals from Father Time
To stultify himself.
So, if you 'd be a jovial soul,
And laugh at life's decline,
Take my advice, — turn off the gas,
And go to bed at nine !
An easy-cushioned rocking-chair
Suits me uncommon well ;
And so do liberal shoes, — like these, —
With room for corns to swell ;
I cotton to the soft lamb's-wool
That lines my gloves of kid,
And love elastic home-made socks, —
Indeed, I always did.
240 TAKING IT EASY.
But what disturbs me more than all
Is, that sarcastic boys
Prefer to have me somewhere else,
When they are at their noise ;
That while I try to look and act
As like them as I can,
They will persist in mister-ing me,
And calling me a man !
True — Time will seam and blanch my brow.
Well, I shall sit with aged men,
And my good glass will tell me how
A grisly beard becomes me then.
And should no foul dishonor lie
Upon my head, when I am gray,
Love yet shall watch my fading eye,
And smooth the path of my decay.
Then haste thee, Time, — 't is kindness all
That speeds thy winged feet so fast ;
Thy pleasures stay not till they pall,
And all thy pains are quickly past.
Thou niest and bear'st away our woes,
And, as thy shadowy train depart,
The memory of sorrow grows
A lighter burden on the heart.
W. C. Bryant.
OLD AUNTY.
The following is a true story. I well remember the worthy
old woman, who sat in Washington Park, behind a table covered
with apples and nuts. I also know the family of the little
Joanna, who used to carry her a cup of hot tea and warm rolls
from one of the big houses in the adjoining Square, and who got
up a petition to the Mayor in her behalf. It is a humble pic-
ture ; but a soft, warm light falls on it from poor Old Aunty's
self-sacrificing devotion to her orphans, and from the mutual love
between her and the children of the neighborhood.
L. M. C.
^LL the children knew Old Aunty.
Every day, in rain or shine, she sat
there in the Park, with her little store
of candies, cakes, and cigars, spread on
a wooden box. Her cheerful smile and hearty
" God bless you ! ' were always ready for the
children, whether they bought of her or not. If
they stopped to purchase, she gave right generous
measure, heaping the nuts till they rolled off the top
of the pint, and often throwing in a cake or stick
of candy ; so generous was her heart.
11 p
242 OLD AUNTY.
Like all unselfish people, Aunty was happy as
the days are long. Had you followed her home
at night, you would have seen her travel down a
poor old street, narrow and musty, and climb the
broken stairs of a poor old house that was full of
other lodgers, some of them noisy, disorderly, and
intemperate. When she opened the creaking door
of her one small room, you would have seen the
boards loose in the floor, little furniture, very little
that looked like rest or comfort, like home for a
tired body that had toiled full seventy years, and
had once known the pleasure of a cheerful fireside
and a full house.
But presently you would hear the patter of little
feet, and the music of children's voices, and little
hands at work with the rusty door-latch, till open
it flew. You would have heard two merry little
creatures shouting, " Granny 's come home ! Dear
Granny 's come home ! " You would have seen
them dancing about her, clapping their bands, and
saying, " O we 're so glad, so glad you 've come
back ! " These are the orphan grandchildren, to
feed and clothe whom Old Aunty is willing to
walk so far, and sit so long in the cold, and earn
penny by penny, as the days go by.
She kindles no fire, for it is not winter yet, and
the poor can eat their supper cold : but the chil-
dren's love and a well-spent day kindle a warmth
and a light in the good dame's heart, such as I
fear seldom beams in some of those great stately
houses in the Square.
OLD AUNTY. 243
With such a home, it is not strange that Aunty-
liked to sit under the pleasant trees of the Parade
Ground (for so the Park was called), breathe the
fresh air, and watch the orderly people going to
and fro. Many stopped to exchange a word with
her ; even the police officers, in their uniforms,
liked a chat with the sociable old lady ; and the
children, on their way to school, were never too
hurried for a " Good morning, Aunty ! ' that
would leave a smile on her wrinkled face, long
after they had bounded out of sight.
It was nearly as good as if Aunty had a farm
of her own ; for it is always country up in the sky,
you know ; in the beautiful blue, among the soft
clouds, and along the tops of the trees. Even in
that dismal, musty street, where she lived, she
could see the sunshine, and the wonderful stars at
evening. Then all about the Parade Ground stood
the fine great houses of Washington Square ; and
leading from it, that Fifth Avenue, which is said
to be the most splendid street in the world, — whole
miles of palaces.
" Don't I enjoy them all, without having the
care of them ? " Aunty used to say.
When we asked if she did n't grow tired of sit-
ting there all day, she would answer, " Sure, and
who is n't tired sometimes, rich or poor ? '
" But is not the ground damp, Aunty ? "
" I expect it is, especially after a rain ; but what
then ? It only gives me the rheumatism ; and that
is all the trouble I have. God be praised ! "
244 OLD AUNTY.
" But it is so cold now, Aunty ; so late in No-
vember ; and you are so old ; it is n't safe."
" O, but it 's safer than to have my children
starve or turn beggars, I guess. I have my old
umbrella when it rains or snows, and them 's my
harvest-days, you see ; for there 's a deal of pity
in the world. And besides, the children in that
house yonder, often bring me out a hot cup of tea
at luncheon-time, or cakes of good warm bread in
the morning. Let me alone for being happy ! '
But earthly happiness hangs on a slight thread.
There came a change in the city government ;
Aunty's good friends among the police were re-
moved ; the new officers proved their zeal by mak
ing every change they could think of. " New
brooms sweep clean," and they swept off from the
Parade Ground, poor Aunty, and all her stock in
trade.
But in one of the houses opposite Aunty's cor-
ner of the Park, lived a family of children who
took especial interest in her ; Charlie, Willie, Vin-
cent, and Joanna, and I can't tell how many more.
It was they who christened her " Aunty," till all
the neighbors, old and young, took up the name ;
it was they who, on wintry days, had offered her
the hot cup of tea, and the warm bread. They
almost felt as if she were an own relative, or a
grown-up child given them to protect and comfort.
One morning, Joanna looked up from the break-
fast-table, and exclaimed, " There ! Aunty is not
in the Park ; they have sent her away ! '
OLD AUNTY. 245
The children had feared this change. You may
guess how eagerly they ran to the window, and
with what mournful faces they exclaimed again and
again, " It is too bad ! " They would eat no more
breakfast ; they could think and talk of nothing
but Aunty's wrongs.
It was a bleak December day, and there the
poor old woman sat outside the iron railing, no
pleasant trees above her, but dust and dead leaves
blowing wildly about. Charlie said, with tears in
his eyes, " It 's enough to blind poor Old Aunty."
" It's enough to ruin her candy," said Joanna,
who was a practical little body. She had a look
in her eyes that was better than tears ; a look that
seemed to say, " Her candy shall not be rub Led.
Aunty shall go back to her rightful place."
We did not know about Aunty's having any
right to her old seat ; but we all agreed that it was
far better for her to sit near the path that ran slant-
wise through the Park, and was trodden by hun-
dreds and thousands of feet every day ; clerks
going to Sixth Avenue, and merchants to Broad-
way ; newsmen, porters, school-children, teachers,
preachers, invalids ; there was no end to the people.
Many a cake or apple they had taken from Aunty's
board, and in their haste, or kindness, never waited
for change to the bit of silver they tossed her.
In New York every one is in such a hurry that
unless you are almost under their feet they cannot
see you. For this reason, on the day of Aunty's
246 OLD AUNTY.
absence, she had the grief of watching many old
friends and customers go past, give a surprised look
at her old seat, and hurry on, never observing her,
though she sat so near.
A few, who espied Aunty, stopped in their haste
to hear her story and condole with her. The
children found her out, you may be sure, and
gathered about her, telling her how much too bad
it was ; and how they should like to set the police-
men, Mayor and all, out there on a bench in the
dust, for one half-hour ; but what could children
do ? So they passed on. Some of the fashionable
ladies in the Square stopped to tell Aunty how they
pitied her, begged her not to feel unhappy, and
passed on. Only Trouble stood still and frowned
at her ; all the rest passed on.
No, not all ; not our little Joanna. She came
home with a thoughtful face, and asked, very ener-
getically, " What do you mean to do about Aunty ?
It is a shame that all these rich, strong, grown-
up people on the Square, cannot stand up for the
rights of one poor old woman."
We told her the city was richer than the rich-
est, stronger than the strongest.
" O," persisted Joanna, " if we, or any of them,
wanted a new lamp-post, or a hydrant mended, we
should muster strength fast enough. And now,
what 's to become of Aunty and her poor children?
that is all I ask."
We smiled at Joey's enthusiasm, and thought it
OLD AUNTY. 247
would soon pass away. When she came home
from school that afternoon, with a whole troop of
little girls, we thought it had already passed away.
As they ran down the area-steps, we wondered what
amusement they were planning now. Presently,
Joanna came up-stairs, her eyes looking very
bright, and said, " Please give me the inkstand."
We asked, "What now, child?"
66 O, do just give me the inkstand ! ' said she,
impatiently. " We are not in any mischief; we
are attending to business"', and off she ran.
Before very long she appeared again with a
paper, her black eyes burning like stars. " There,
mother, — and all of you, — you must sign this
letter, as quick as ever you can. I have made a
statement of Aunty's case ; all the children have
signed their names ; and now we are going to
every house in the Square, till we have a good
long list."
"And what then?"
" I shall ask father to take it to the Mayor. He
wont be so unreasonable as to refuse us ; no one
could."
Joanna had written out Aunty's story, in her
own simple, direct way. She told how this nice,
neat, pleasant old person had been turned out of
the Park ; how the children all had liked her, and
found it convenient to buy at her table ; and how
she never scolded if they dropped papers and nut-
shells about, but took her own little pan and brush
248 OLD AUNTY.
and swept them away ; she was so orderly. She
ended her letter with a petition that the Mayor
would be so good to the children, and this excel-
lent old grandmother, as to let her go back to her
old seat.
If the Mayor could refuse, we could not ; so
our names went down on the paper ; and before
the ink was dry, off ran Joanna. The hall-door
slammed, and we saw her with all her friends run
up the steps of the neighboring houses, full of
excitement and hope.
Nearly all the families that lived in the great
houses of Washington Square were rich ; and some
of them proud and selfish, perhaps ; for money
sometimes does sad mischief to the hearts of peo-
ple. We asked ourselves, " What will they care
for old Aunty ? "
Whatever their tempers might be, however,
when the lady or gentleman came and saw the
bright, eager faces, and the young eyes glistening
with sympathy, and the little hands pointing out
there at the aged woman on the sidewalk, — while
they were in their gilded and cushioned houses, —
they could not refuse a name, and the list swelled
fast.
At one house lived three Jewesses, who were so
pleased with the children's scheme, that they not
only gave their own names, but obtained many
more. "" They are Jews, ma'am, but they 're
Christians ! " said Aunty afterwards ; by which
OLD AUNTY. . 249
she meant, it is not names, but actions, that prove
us followers of the loving, compassionate Christ.
So large was the Square, so many houses to
visit, that the ladies' help was very welcome.
They could state Aunty's case with propriety ;
and what with their words and the children's
eloquent faces, all went well.
So the paper was filled with signatures, and Jo-
anna's father took it to the Mayor. He smiled,
and signed his name, in big letters, to an order
that Aunty should return at once to her old seat,
and have all the privileges she had ever enjoyed in
the Park ; and the next morning there she was, in
her own old corner !
As soon as she came, the children ran out to
welcome her. As she shook hands with them, and
looked up in their pleased faces, we saw her again
and again wipe the tears from her old eyes.
Everybody that spoke to Aunty that day, con-
gratulated her ; and when the schools in the neigh-
borhood were dismissed, the scholars and teachers
went together, in procession, and bought everything
Aunty had to sell ; till the poor old woman could
only cover her face and cry, to think that she had
so many friends. If ever you go to the Parade
Ground, in New York, you may talk with old
Aunty, and ask her if this story is not true.
B.
11*
RICHARD AND KATE.
A SUFFOLK BALLAD.
The following verses were written by Robert Bloomfield, an
English shoemaker, more than sixty years ago, when the work-
ing-classes of England had far more limited opportunities for
obtaining education than they now have. Criticism could easily
point out imperfections in the style of this simple story, but the
consolations of age among the poor are presented in such a
touching manner that it is worthy of preservation.
" /""i OME, Goody ! stop your humdrum wheel !
\_J Sweep up your orts, and get your hat !
Old joys revived once more I feel,
'T is Fair-day ! Ay, and more than that !
" Have you forgot, Kate, prithee say,
How many seasons here we 've tarried ?
'T is forty years, this very day,
• Since you and I, old girl, were married,
" Look out ! The sun shines warm and bright ;
The stiles are low, the paths all dry :
I know you cut your corns last night ;
Come ! be as free from care as I.
RICHARD AND KATE. 251
" For I 'm resolved once more to see
That place where we so often met ;
Though few have had more cares than we,
We 've none just now to make us fret."
s
Kate scorned to damp the generous flame,
That warmed her aged partner's breast ;
Yet, ere determination came,
She thus some trifling doubts expressed : ■ —
" Night will come on, when seated snug,
And you 've perhaps begun some tale ;
Can you then leave your dear stone mug ?
Leave all the folks, and all the ale ? "
" Ay, Kate, I wool ; because I know,
Though time has been we both could run,
Such days are gone and over now.
I only mean to see the fun."
His mattock he behind the door,
And hedging gloves, again replaced ;
And looked across the yellow moor,
And urged his tottering spouse to haste.
The day was up, the air serene,
The firmament without a cloud ;
The bees hummed o'er the level green,
Where knots of trembling cowslips bowed.
And Richard thus, with heart elate,
As past things rushed across his mind,
Over his shoulder talked to Kate,
Who, snug tucked up, walked slow behind :
252 RICHARD AND KATE
" When once a giggling mauther * you,
And I a red-faced, chubby boy,
Sly tricks you played me, not a few ;
For mischief was your greatest joy.
" Once, passing by this very tree,
A gotch f of milk I 'd been to fill ;
You shouldered me ; then laughed to see
Me and my gotch spin down the hill."
" 'T is true," she said ; " but here behold,
And marvel at the course of time !
Though you and I are both grown old,
This tree is only in its prime."
" Well, Goody, don't stand preaching now !
Folks don't preach sermons at a Fair.
We 've reared ten boys and girls, you know ;
And I '11 be bound they '11 all be there."
Now friendly nods and smiles had they,
From many a kind Fair-going face ;
And many a pinch Kate gave away,
While Richard kept his usual pace.
At length, arrived amid the throng,
Grandchildren, bawling, hemmed them round,
And dragged them by the skirts along,
Where gingerbread bestrewed the ground.
And soon the aged couple spied
Their lusty sons, and daughters dear ;
When Richard thus exulting cried :
" Did n't I tell you they 'd be here ? "
* A giddy young girl. f A pitcher.
RICHARD AND KATE. 253
The cordial greetings of the soul
Were visible in every face ;
Affection, void of all control,
Governed with a resistless grace.
'T was good to see the honest strife,
Who should contribute most to please ;
And hear the long-recounted life,
Of infant tricks and happy days.
But now, as at some nobler places,
Among the leaders 't was ,decreed
Time to begin the Dicky-Races,
More famed for laughter than for speed.
Richard looked on with wondrous glee,
And praised the lad who chanced to win.
" Kate, wa'n't I such a one as he ?
As like him, ay, as pin to pin ?
" Full fifty years have passed away,
Since I rode this same ground about ;
Lord ! I was lively as the day !
I won the High-lows, out and out.
1
" I 'm surely growing young again,
I feel myself so kedge and plump !
From head to feet I 've not one pain.
Nay, hang me, if I could n't jump ! "
Thus spake the ale in Richard's pate ;
A very little made him mellow ;
But still he loved his faithful Kate,
Who whispered thus : " My good old fellow,
254 RICHARD AND KATE.
" Remember what you promised me !
And, see, the sun is getting low !
The children want an hour, ye see,
To talk a bit before we go."
Like youthful lover, most complying,
He turned and chucked her by the chin ;
Then all across the green grass hieing ;
Right merry faces, all akin.
Their farewell quart beneath a tree,
That drooped its branches from above,
Awaked the pure felicity,
That waits upon parental love.
Kate viewed her blooming daughters round,
And sons who shook her withered hand ;
Her features spoke what joy she found,
But utterance had made a stand.
The children toppled on the green,
And bowled their fairings down the hill ;
Richard with pride beheld the scene,
Nor could he, for his life, sit still.
A father's unchecked feelings gave
A tenderness to all he said :
" My boys, how proud am I to have
My name thus round the country spread !
" Through all my days I Ve labored hard,
And could of pains and crosses tell ;
But this is labor's great reward,
To meet ye thus, and see ye well.
RICHARD AND KATE. 255
" My good old partner, when at home,
Sometimes with wishes mingles tears ;
Goody, says I, let what wool come,
We Ve nothing for them but our prayers.
" May you be all as old as I,
And see your sons to manhood grow ;
And many a time, before you die,
Be just as pleased as I am now."
Then (raising still his mug and voice),
" An old man's weakness don't despise !
I love you well, my girls and boys.
God bless you all ! " So said his eyes ;
For, as he spoke, a big round drop
Fell bounding on his ample sleeve ;
A witness which he could not stop ;
A witness which all hearts believe.
Thou, filial piety, wert there ;
And round the ring, benignly bright,
Dwelt in the luscious half-shed tear,
And in the parting words, " Good Night ! "
With thankful hearts and strengthened lo^e
The poor old pair, supremely blest,
Saw the sun sink behind the grove,
And gained once more their lowly rest
LUDOVICO CORNARO.
DERIVED FROM THE WRITINGS OF CORNARO.
" I do not woo
The means of weakness and debility ;
Therefore, my age is as a lusty winter,
Frosty, but kindly."
Varied from Shakespeare.
UDOVICO CORNARO, descended
from a noble family in Venice, was
born in 1462, thirty years before Amer-
ica was discovered. He removed to
Padua, where he married, and late in life had an
only child, a daughter, who married one of the
Cornaro family.
. As an illustration of the physical laws of our
being, the outlines of his history are worthy of pres-
ervation. He was wealthy, and indulged in the
habits common to young men of his class. He
was fond of sensual indulgences, and especially
drank wine intemperately. The consequence was,
that from twenty-five years of age to forty, he was
afflicted with dyspepsia, gout, and frequent slow
LUDOVICO CORNARO. 257
fevers. Medicines failed to do any permanent
good, and physicians told him that nothing could
restore him but simplicity and regularity of living.
This advice was very contrary to his taste, and he
continued to indulge in the luxuries of the table,
paying the penalty of suffering for it afterwards.
At last his health was so nearly ruined, that the
doctors predicted he could not live many months.
At this crisis, being about forty years old, he re-
solved to become temperate and abstemious ; but it
required so much effort to change his dissipated
habits, that he frequently resorted to prayer for
aid in keeping the virtuous resolution. His perse-
verance was more speedily rewarded than might
have been expected ; for in less than a year he
was freed from the diseases which had so long tor-
mented him. In order to preserve the health thus
restored to him, he observed the peculiarities of
his constitution, and carefully conformed to them
in his habits and modes of living. He says : " It
is a favorite maxim with epicures that whatever
pleases the palate must agree with the stomach
and nourish the body ; but this I found to be false ;
for pork, pastry, salads, rough wines, &c, were
very agreeable to my palate, yet they disagreed
with me." There seems to have been nothing
peculiar in the kinds of food which constituted his
nourishment ; moderation as to quantity, and sim-
plicity in modes of cooking, were the principal
things he deemed of importance. He speaks of
Q
258 LUDOVICO CORNARO.
mutton, fish, poultry, birds, eggs, light soups and
broths, and new wine in moderate quantities, as
among his customary articles of diet. He is par-
ticularly earnest in his praises of bread. He says :
" Bread, above all things, is man's proper food, and]
always relishes well when seasoned by a good appe-
tite ; and this natural sauce is never wanting to
those who eat but little ; for when the stomach is
not burdened, there is no need to wait long for an
appetite. I speak from experience ; for I find such
sweetness in bread, that I should be afraid of sin-
ning against temperance in eating it, were it not
for my being convinced of the absolute necessity
for nourishment, and that we cannot make use of
a more natural kind of food."
He does not lay down specific rules for others,
but very wisely advises each one to govern himself
according to the laws of his own constitution. He
says every man ought carefully to observe what
kinds of food and drink agree or disagree with
him, and indulge or refrain accordingly ; but what-
ever he eats or drinks, it should be in quantities so
moderate as to be easily digested. He grows elo-
quent in his warnings against the fashionable lux-
ury, by which he had himself suffered so severely.
He exclaims : " O, unhappy Italy ! Do you not see
that intemperance causes more deaths than plague,
or fire, or many battles ? These profuse feasts,
now so much in fashion, where the tables are not
large enough to hold the variety of dishes, I tell
LUDOVICO CORNARO. 259
you these cause more murders than so many bat-
tles. I beseech you to put a stop to these abuses.
Banish luxury, as you would the plague. I am
certain there is no vice more abominable in the eyes
of the Divine Majesty. It brings on the body a
long and lasting train of disagreeable sensations
and diseases, and at length it destroys the soul also.
I have seen men of fine understanding and amia-
ble disposition carried off by this plague, in the
flower of their youth, who, if they had lived ab-
stemiously, might now be among us, to benefit and
adorn society."
His dissertations on health may be condensed
into the following concise general rules, which are
worthy of all acceptance : —
Let every man study his own constitution, and
regulate food, drink, and other habits in conform-
ity thereto.
Never indulge in anything which has the effect
to render the body uncomfortable or lethargic, or
the mind restless and irritable.
Even healthy food should be cooked with
simplicity, and eaten with moderation. Never
eat or drink to repletion, but make it a rule to
rise from the table with inclination for a little
more.
Be regular in the hours for meals and sleep. j
Be in the open air frequently ; riding, walking, 1
or using other moderate exercise. i
Avoid extremes of heat or cold, excessive fatigue,
260 LUDOVICO CORNARO.
and places where the air is unwholesome, for want
of ventilation.
Restrain anger and fretfulness, and keep all
malignant or sensual passions in constant check.
Banish melancholy, and do everything to promote
cheerfulness. All these things have great influ-
ence over bodily health.
Interest yourself constantly in employments of
some kind.
He gives it as his opinion that anger, peevish-
ness, and despondency are not likely to trouble
those who are temperate and regular in their hab-
its, and diligent in their occupations. He says :
" I was born with a very choleric disposition, inso-
much that there was no living with me. But I
reflected that a person under the sway of passion
was for the time being no better than a lunatic.
I therefore resolved to make my temper give way
to reason. I have so far succeeded, that anger
never entirely overcomes me, though I do not
guard myself so well as not to be sometimes hur-
ried away by it. I have, however, learned by ex-
perience that hurtful passions of any kind have but
little power over those who lead a sober and use-
ful life. Neither despondency nor any other affec-
tion of the mind will harm bodies governed by
temperance and regularity."
In answer to the objection that he lived too
sparingly to make the change which is sometimes
necessary in case of sickness, he replies: " Nature
LUDOVICO CORNARO. 261
is so desirous to preserve men in good health, that
she herself teaches them how to ward off illness.
When it is not good for them to eat, appetite
usually diminishes. Whether a man has been ab-
stemious or not, when he is ill it is necessary to
take only such nourishment as is suited to his dis-
order, and even that in smaller quantities than he
was accustomed to in health. But the best answer
to this objection is, that those who live very tem-
perately are hot liable to be sick. By removing
the cause of diseases, they prevent the effects."
He also maintains that external injuries are very
easily cured, when the blood has been kept in a
pure state by abstemious living and regular habits.
In proof of it, he tells his own experience when, at
seventy years of age, he was overturned in a coach,
and dragged a considerable distance by the fright-
ened horses. He was severely bruised, and a leg
and arm were broken ; but his recovery was so
rapid and complete, that physicians were aston-
ished.
Much of his health and cheerfulness he attributes
to constant occupation. He says : " The greatest
source of my happiness is the power to render
some service to my dear country. O, what a glo-
rious amusement ! I delight to show Venice how
her important harbor can be improved, and how
large tracts of lands, marshes and barren sands
can be rendered productive ; how her fortification?
can be strengthened ; how her air, though excel
262 LUDOVICO CORNARO.
lent, can be made still purer ; and how, beautiful
as she is, the beauty of her buildings can still be
increased. For two months together, during the
heat of summer, I have been with those who were
appointed to drain the public marshes ; and though
I was seventy-five years old, yet, such is the effi-
cacy of an orderly life, that I found myself none
the worse for the fatigue and inconveniences I suf-
fered. It is also a source of satisfaction to me that,
having lost a considerable portion of my income, I
was enabled to repair it for my grandchildren, by
that most commendable of arts, agriculture. I did
this by infallible methods, worked out by dint of
thought, without any fatigue of body, and very
little of mind. I owned an extensive marshy dis-
trict, where the air was so unwholesome that it
was more fit for snakes than men. I drained off
the stagnant waters, and the air became pure.
People resorted thither so fast, that a village soon
grew up, laid out in regular streets, all terminating
in a large square, in the middle of which stands
the church. The village is divided by a wide and
rapid branch of the river Brenta, on both sides of
which is a considerable extent of well-cultivated
fertile fields. I may say with truth, that in this
place I have erected an altar to God, and brought
thither souls to adore him. When I visit these
people, the sight of these things affords me infinite
satisfaction and enjoyment. In my gardens, too, I
always find something to do that amuses me. It
LUDOVICO CORNARO. 263
is also a great satisfaction to me, that I can write
treatises with my own hand, for the service of
others ; and that, old as I am, I can study im-
portant, sublime, and difficult subjects, without
fatigue."
His writings consisted of short treatises on health,
agriculture, architecture, etc. In an essay, enti-
tled, " A Guide to Health," written when he was
eighty-three years old, he says : " My faculties are
all perfect ; particularly my palate, which now
relishes better the simple fare I eat than it for-
merly did the most luxurious dishes, when I led an
irregular life. Change of beds gives me no unea-
siness. I sleep everywhere soundly and quietly,
and my dreams are always pleasant. I climb hills
from bottom to top, afoot, with the greatest ease
and unconcern. I am cheerful and good-humored,
being free from perturbations and disagreeable
thoughts. Joy and peace have so firmly fixed
their residence in my bosom, that they never
depart from it."
In another essay, called " A Compendium of a
Sober Life," he says : " I now find myself sound
and hearty, at the age of eighty-six. My senses
continue perfect ; even my teeth, my voice, my
memory, and my strength. What is more, the
powers of my mind do not diminish, as I advance
in years ; because, as I grow older, I lessen the
quantity of my solid food. I greatly enjoy the
beautiful expanse of this visible world, which is
264 LUDOVICO CORNARO.
really beautiful to those who know how to view it
with a philosophic eye. O, thrice-holy Sobriety,
thou hast conferred such favors on thine old man,
that he better relishes his dry bread, than he did
the most dainty dishes in the days of his youth !
My spirits, not oppressed by too much food, are
always brisk, especially after eating ; so that I am
accustomed then to sing a song, and afterward to
write. I do not find myself the worse for writing
immediately after meals ; I am not apt to be
drowsy, and my understanding is always clearer,
the food I take being too small in quantity to send
up any fumes into my brain. O, how advantageous
it is to an old man to eat but little ! "
In a letter to a friend, written when he was
ninety-one, the old man rejoices over his vigor and
friskiness, as a boy does over his exploits on the
ice. He says : " The more I advance in years,
the sounder and heartier I grow, to the amazement
of the world. My memory, spirits, and under-
standing, and even my voice and my teeth, remain
unimpaired. I employ eight hours a day in writing
treatises with my own hand ; and when I tell you
that I write to be useful to mankind, ' you may
easily conceive what pleasure I enjoy. I spend
many hours daily in walking and singing. And
O, how melodious my voice has grown ! Were
you to hear me chant my prayers to my lyre, after
the example of David, I am certain it would give
you great pleasure, my voice is so musical."
LUDOVICO CORNARO. 265
In an essay, entitled, " An Earnest Exhorta-
tion," he says : " Arrived at my ninety-fifth year,
I still find myself sound and hearty, content and
cheerful. I eat with good appetite, and sleep
soundly. My understanding is clear, and my
memory tenacious. I write seven or eight hours
a day, walk, converse, and occasionally attend
concerts. My voice, which is apt to be the first
thing to fail, grows so strong and sonorous, that I
cannot help chanting my prayers aloud, morning
and evening, instead of murmuring them to myself,
as was formerly my custom. Apprehensions of
death do not disturb my mind, for I have no sens-
uality to nourish such thoughts. I have reason to
think that my soul, having so agreeable a dwelling
in my body, as not to meet with anything in it but
peace, love, and harmony, not only between its
humors, but between my reason and my senses, is
exceedingly contented and pleased with her present
situation, and that, of course, it will require many
years to dislodge her. Whence I conclude that I
have still a series of years to live in health and
spirits, and enjoy this beautiful world, which is in-
deed beautiful to those who know how to make it
so by virtue and divine regularity of life. If men
would betake themselves to a sober, regular, and
abstemious course of life, they would not grow in-
firm in their old age, but would continue strong
and hearty as I am, and might attain to a hundred
years and upwards, as I expect will be my case.
12
266 LUDOVICO CORNARO.
God has ordained that whoever reaches his natural
term should end his days without sickness or pain,
by mere dissolution. This is the natural way of
quitting mortal life to enter upon immortality, as
will be my case."
Once only, in the course of his long life, did
Cornaro depart from the strict rules he had laid
down for himself. When he w T as seventy-eight
years old, his physician and family united in urg-
ing him to take more nutrition ; saying, that he
required it to keep up his strength, now that he
was growing so old. He argued that habit had
become with him a second nature, and that it was
unsafe to change ; moreover, that as the stomach
grew more feeble, it was reasonable to suppose
that it ought to have less work to do, rather than
more. But as they continued to remonstrate, he
finally consented to add a little to his daily portion
of food and wine. He says : " In eight days, this
had such an effect upon me, that from being
cheerful and brisk, I began to be peevish and
melancholy, so that nothing could please me. I
was so strangely disposed, that I neither knew
what to say to others, nor what to do with my-
self." The result was a terrible fever, which
lasted thirty-five days, and reduced him almost to
a skeleton. He attributes his recovery to the
abstinence he had practised for so many years.
" During all which time," says he, " I never knew
what sickness was ; unless it might be some slight
LUDOVICO CORNARO. 267
indisposition, that continued merely for a day or
two." He gives it, as the result of his long ex-
perience, that it is well for people, as they become
aged, to diminish the quantity of solid food. He
also advises that such nourishment as they take
should be less at any one time, and taken more fre-
quently.
Never had longevity such a zealous panegyrist
as this venerable Italian. He says : " Some sens-
ual, inconsiderate persons affirm that long life is
not a blessing ; that the state of a man who has
passed his seventy-fifth year does not deserve to be
called life, but is rather a lingering death. This is
a great mistake. And I, who have experienced
the salutary effects of temperate, regular habits,
am bound to prove that a man may enjoy a ter-
restrial paradise after he is eighty years old. My
own existence, so far from being a lingering death,
is a perpetual round of pleasures ; and it is my
sincere wish that all men would endeavor to attain
my age, in order that they also may enjoy that
period of life which of all others is the most de-
sirable. For that reason I will give an account
of my recreations, and of the relish I find in life
at its present advanced stage. I can climb my
horse without any assistance, or advantage of
situation, and now and then I make one of a
hunting party suitable to my age and taste. I
have frequent opportunities to converse with in-
telligent, worthy gentlemen, well acquainted with
268 LUDOVICO CORNARO.
»
literature. When I have not such conversation to
enjoy, I betake myself to reading some good book.
When I have read as much as I like, I write,
endeavoring in this, as in everything else, to be of
service to others. This I do in my own com-
modious house, in the most beautiful quarter of
this noble and learned city of Padua, and around
it are gardens supplied with running waters, where
I always find something to do that amuses me.
Every spring and autumn I go to a handsome
hunting-lodge, belonging to me, in the Euganean
mountains, which is also adorned with fountains
and gardens. Then I visit my village in the plain,
the soil of which I redeemed from the marshes.
I visit neighboring cities, to meet old friends, and
to converse with architects, painters, sculptors,
musicians, and husbandmen, from all of whom I
learn something that gives me satisfaction. I
visit their new works, and I revisit their old ones.
I see churches, palaces, gardens, fortifications,
and antiquities, leaving nothing unobserved from
which either entertainment or instruction can be
derived. But what delights me most is the sce-
nery I pass through, in my journeys backwards
and forwards. When I was young, and debauched
by an irregular life, I did not observe the beauties
of nature ; so that I never knew, till I grew old,
that the world was beautiful. That no comfort
may be wanting to the fulness of my years, 1
enjoy a kind of immortality in a succession of
LUDOVICO CORNARO. 269
descendants. When I return home from my jour-
neys, I am greeted by eleven grandchildren, the
oldest eighteen, the youngest two years old ; all
the offspring of one father and mother. They
all have good parts and morals, are blessed with
the best of health, and fond of learning. I play
with the youngest, and make companions of the
older ones. Nature has bestowed on them fine
voices. I delight in hearing them sing and play
on various instruments, and I myself sing with
them, for I have a clearer and louder pipe now
than at any other period of life. Such gayety of
spirits has been imparted by my temperate life,
that at my present age of eighty-three I have been
able to write a very entertaining comedy, abound-
ing with innocent mirth and pleasant jests. I de-
clare I would not exchange my gray hairs, or
my mode of living, with any young men, even of
the best constitutions, who seek pleasure through
the indulgence of their appetites. I take an in-
terest in seeing the draining of marshes and the
improvement of the harbor going on, and it is a
great comfort to me that my treatises on a tem-
perate life have proved useful to others, as many
have assured me, both by word of mouth, and by
letter. I may further add, that I enjoy two lives
at once. I enjoy this terrestrial life, in consequence
of sobriety and temperance ; and, by the grace of
God, I enjoy the celestial life, which he makes
me anticipate by thought, — a thought so lively,
270 LUDOVICO CORNARO.
that I affirm the enjoyment to be of the utmost
certainty. To die in the manner that I expect to
die is not really death, but merely a passage of the
soul from this earthly life to an infinitely perfect
existence. The prospect of terminating the high
gratifications I have enjoyed here gives me no
uneasiness ; it rather affords me pleasure, as it will
be only to make room for another glorious and
immortal life. How beautiful the life I lead !
How happy my exit ! "
His prophecy proved true. He lived to be one
hundred and four years old, and passed away with-
out pain, sitting in his elbow-chair. His wife,
who was nearly as old as himself, survived
him but a short time, and died easily.
They were buried in St. Anthony's
Church, at Padua, in a very
unostentatious manner, ac-
cording to their tes-
tamentary di-
rections.
When Dr. Priestley was young, he preached
that old age was the happiest period of life ; and
when he was himself eighty, he wrote, " I have
found it so."
ROBIN AND JEANNIE
By DORA GREENWELL.
a
DO you think of the days that are gone, Jeannie,
As you sit by the fire at night ?
Do you wish that the morn would bring back the time,
When your heart and your step were so light ? "
" I think of the days that are gone, Robin,
And of all that I joyed in then ;
But the brightest that ever arose on me,
I have never wished back again."
" Do you think of the hopes that are gone, Jeannie,
As you sit by the fire at night ?
Do you gather them up, as they faded fast,
Like buds with an early blight ? "
" I think of the hopes that are gone, Robin,
And I mourn not their stay was fleet,
For they fell as the leaves of the roses fall,
And were even in falling sweet."
272 ROBIN AND JEANNIE.
" Do you think of the friends that are gone, Jeannie,
As you sit by the fire at night ?
Do you wish they were round you again once more,
By the hearth that they made so bright ? "
" I think of the friends that are gone, Robin ;
They are dear to my heart as then ;
But the best and the dearest among them all
I have never wished back again."
u We have lived and loved together,
Through many changing years ;
We have shared each other's gladness,
We have wept each other's tears.
" I have never known a sorrow
That was long unsoothed by thee ;
For thy smile can make a summer,
Where darkness else would be.
" And let us hope the future
As the past has been, will be ;
I will share with thee thy sorrows,
And thou thy smiles with me."
Anonymous.
A GOOD OLD AGE.
FROM MOUNTFORD S EUTHANASY.
GOOD old age is a beautiful sight, and
there is nothing earthly that is as noble,
— in my eyes, at least. And so I have
often thought. A ship is a fine object,
when it comes up into a port, with all its sails set,
and quite safely, from a long voyage. Many a
thousand miles it has come, with the sun for guid-
ance, and the sea for its path, and the winds for its
speed. What might have been its grave, a thou-
sand fathoms deep, has yielded it a ready way ;
and winds that might have been its wreck have
been its service. It has come from another me-
ridian than ours ; it has come through day and
night ; it has come by reefs and banks that have
been avoided, and past rocks that have been
watched for. Not a plank has started, nor one
timber in it proved rotten. And now it comes
like an answer to the prayers of many hearts ; a
delight to the owner, a joy to many a sailor's
family, and a pleasure to all ashore, that see it.
12* R
274 A GOOD OLD AGE.
It has been steered over the ocean, and been pilot-
ed through dangers, and now it is safe.
But still more interesting than this is a good life,
as it approaches its threescore years and ten. It
began in the century before the present ; it has
lasted on through storms and sunshine ; and it has
been guarded against many a rock, on which ship-
wreck of a good conscience might have been made.
On the course it has taken, there has been the
influence of Providence ; and it has been guided
by Christ, that day-star from on high. Yes, old
age is even a nobler sight than a ship completing a
long, long voyage.
On a summer's evening, the setting sun is grand
to look at. In his morning beams, the birds awoke
and sang, men rose for their work, and the world
grew light. In his mid-day heat, wheat-fields grew
yellower, and fruits were ripened, and a thousand
natural purposes were answered, which we mortals
do not know T of. And at his setting, all things
seem to grow harmonious and solemn in his light.
But what is all this to the sight of a good life,
in those years that go down into the grave ? In
the early days of it, old events had their happen-
ing ; with the light of it many a house has been
brightened ; and under the good influence of it,
souls have grown better, some of whom are now
on high. And then the closing period of such a
life, — how almost awful is the beauty of it ! From
his setting, the sun will rise again to-morrow ; and
he will shine on men and their work, and on chil-
A GOOD OLD AGE. 275
dren's children and their labors. But when once
finished, even a good life has no renewal in this
world. It will begin again ; but it will be in
a new earth, and under new heavens.
Yes, nobler than a ship safely
ending a long voyage, and
sublimer than the setting
sun, is the old age of
a just, a kind,
and useful
life.
r
A good old man is the best antiquity ; one
whom time hath been thus long a working, and,
like winter fruit, ripened when others are shaken
down. He looks over his former life as a danger
well past, and would not hazard himself to begin
again. The next door of death saps him not, but
he expects it calmly, as his turn in nature. All
men look on him as a common father, and on old
age, for his sake, as a reverent thing. He prac-
tises his experience on youth, without harshness
or reproof, and in his council is good company.
You must pardon him if he likes his own times
better than these, because those things are follies
to him now, that were wisdom then ; yet he makes
us of that opinion, too, when we see him, and con-
jecture those times by so good a relic. — Bishop
Earle.
MY PSALM.
By JOHN G. WHITTIER.
I MOURN no more my vanished years
Beneath a tender rain, —
An April rain of smiles and tears, —
My heart is young again.
The west winds blow, and, singing low,
I hear the glad streams run ;
The windows of my soul I throw
Wide open to the sun.
No longer forward nor behind
I look in hope or fear ;
But, grateful, take the good I find,
The best of now and here.
I plough no more a desert land,
To harvest weed and tare ;
The manna dropping from God's hand
Rebukes my painful care.
I break my pilgrim staff, I lay
Aside the toiling oar ;
The angel sought so far away,
I welcome at my door.
MY PSALM. 277
The airs of Spring may never play
Among the ripening corn,
Nor freshness of the flowers of May
Blow through the Autumn morn ; —
Yet shall the blue-eyed Gentian look
Through fringed lids to Heaven,
And the pale Aster in the brook
Shall see its image given ; —
The woods shall wear their robes of praise,
The south-wind softly sigh ;
And sweet, calm days, in golden haze,
Melt down the amber sky.
Not less shall manly deed and word
Rebuke an age of wrong ;
The graven flowers that wreathe the sword
Make not the blade less strong.
But smiting hands shall learn to heal,
To build, as to destroy ;
Nor less my heart for others feel,
That I the more enjoy.
All as God wills, who wisely heeds
To give or to withhold,
And knoweth more of all my needs
Than all my prayers have told.
Enough that blessings undeserved
Have marked my erring track, —
That, wheresoe'er my feet have swerved,
His chastening turned me back, —
278 MY PSALM.
That more and more a Providence
Of love is understood,
Making the springs of time and sense
Sweet with eternal good, —
That death seems but a covered way
Which opens into light,
Wherein no blinded child can stray
Beyond the Father's sight, —
That care and trial seem at last,
Through Memory's sunset air,
Like mountain-ranges, overpast,
In purple distance fair, —
That all the jarring notes of life
Seem blending in a psalm,
And all the angles of its strife
Slow rounding into calm.
And so the shadows fall apart,
And so the west winds play ;
And all the windows of my heart
I open to the day.
Over the winter glaciers,
I see the summer glow,
And, through the wild piled snow-drift,
The warm rosebuds below.
E. W. Emerson.
\
JOHN HENRY VON DANNECKER.
DERIVED FROM MRS. JAMESON'S SKETCHES, LONGFELLOW'S
HYPERION, AND FROM VARIOUS EUROPEAN LETTERS.
HIS celebrated German sculptor was
born in 1758, at Stuttgard. His fa-
ther, who was one of the grooms of the
% Duke of Wiirtemberg, was a stupid,
harsh man. He thought it sufficient for his son to
know how to work in the stable ; and how the
gifted boy contrived to pick up the rudiments of
reading and writing, he could not remember in
after life. He had an extraordinary passion for
drawing, and being too poor to buy paper and
pencils, he used to scrawl figures with charcoal on
the slabs of a neighboring stone-cutter. When his
father discovered this, he beat him for his idleness ;
but his mother interfered to protect him. After
he arrived at manhood, he was accustomed to speak
of her with the utmost tenderness and reverence ;
saying that her promptings were the first softening
and elevating influences he ever knew. His bright
countenance and alert ways sometimes attracted
280 JOHN HENRY VON DANNECKER.
the notice of the Duke, who saw him running
about the precincts of the palace, ragged and bare-
foot ; but he was far enough from foreseeing the
wonderful genius that would be developed in this
child of one of his meanest servants.
When John Henry was about thirteen years old,
the Duke established a military school, into which
poor boys, who manifested sufficient intelligence,
might be admitted. As soon as he heard of this
opportunity, he eagerly announced the intention
of presenting himself as a candidate. His surly
father became very angry at this, and told him he
should stay at home and work. When the lad
persisted in saying he wanted to get a chance to
learn something, he beat him and locked him up.
The persevering boy jumped out of the window,
collected several of his comrades together, and pro-
posed to them to go to the Duke and ask to be
admitted into his school. The whole court hap-
pened to be assembled at the palace when the little
troop marched up. Being asked by one of the
attendants what they wanted, Dannecker replied,
" Tell his Highness the Duke that we want to be
admitted to the Charles School." The Duke, who
was amused by this specimen of juvenile earnest-
ness, went out to inspect the boys. He led aside
one after another, till only Dannecker and two
others remained. He used to say afterward that
he supposed himself rejected, and suffered such an
agony of shame, that he was on the point of run-
JOHN HENRY VON DANNECKER. 281
ning away and hiding himself, when he discovered
that those who had been led aside were the rejected
ones. The Duke ordered the successful candidates
to go next morning to the school, and dismissed
them. The father did not dare to resist such high
authority, but he was so enraged with his son, that
he turned him out of the house and forbade him
ever to enter it again. But his good mother
packed up a little bundle of necessaries for him,
accompanied him some distance on the road, and
parted with him with tears and blessings.
He did not find himself well situated in this
school. The teachers were accustomed to employ
the poorer boys as servants, and he was kept so
constantly at work, that what little he learned was
mostly accomplished by stealth. But he met with
one piece of great good fortune. Schiller, who
afterward became world-renowned as a writer, was
at this school. The two boys recognized kindred
genius in each other, and formed a friendship
which lasted through life. When he was fifteen
years old, his remarkable talent for drawing caused
him to be removed to the School of Art in Stutt-
gard, where he received instruction from Grubel,
the sculptor. The next year, he obtained the
highest prize for a statue of Milo, modelled in clay.
The Duke, who had forgotten the bright, ragged
boy that formerly attracted his attention, was aston-
ished to hear he had carried off the highest honors
of the School of Art. He employed him to carve
282 JOHN HENRY VON DANNECKER.
cornices and ornaments for two new palaces he was
building. Ten years were thus spent, during
which he acquired a great deal of mere mechanical
skill and dexterity. But he longed to improve
himself by the sight of noble models ; and at last
he obtained leave to travel. The allowance granted
him by his ducal patron was only one hundred and
twenty dollars a year. With this he set off for
Paris, where he studied in the galleries of the
Louvre, often going the whole day without food,
and in a dress too shabby to be considered respect-
able. Those who saw him thus perseveringly em-
ployed, passed by without recognizing the divine
soul that dwelt within the forlorn exterior. He
afterward went to Rome, where for some months,
he wandered about among monuments and ruins,
friendless and homesick. But luckily his illustrious
countrymen, Herder and Goethe were there. He
was introduced to them, and their conversation
imbued him with higher ideas of Art than he
had ever before received. The celebrated Italian
sculptor, Canova, also became acquainted with
him, and often visited him in his studio. There
was but a year's difference in their ages, and their
friendship became intimate. He remained five
years in Rome, and distinguished himself by the
production of several fine statues. He then re-
turned to his native country, where he married.
At fifty years of age he was considered the greatest
sculptor in Germany. The Grand Duke ennobled
JOHN HENRY VON DANNECKER. 283
nim, as the phrase is ; though it seems absurd
enough that wearing a ribbon in his button-hole,
and being allowed to put von before the name his
genius had rendered illustrious, could add any
nobility to a man like Dannecker.
His two most celebrated works are Ariadne
riding on a panther, and his statue of Christ.
The circumstances under which the latter was
produced are very peculiar. Dannecker was a
devout Lutheran, and he often meditated upon
a statue of the Mediator between God and man
as the highest problem of Art. He sought to
embody it, but felt that something was wanting.
A child, who was accustomed to run about his
studio, came in while he was at his work. " Who
do you think that is ? " said the artist, pointing to
his model. The child looked, and replied : " I
don't know ; I guess it is some great king." Ah,
thought Dannecker, I have made the expression
of power to predominate over love. The search
after a perfect ideal of the Divine and human
combined took complete possession of his mind.
Filled with such thoughts, he fell asleep and
dreamed of a face and form transcending anything
he had conceived. He hastened to model it in
clay, while the vision was still fresh in his mind.
When it was shown to the child, he at once ex-
claimed, " That is the Redeemer. Mother reads
to me about him, where he says, ' Suffer little
children to come unto me.' " This confirmed
284 JOHN HENRY VON DANNECKER.
Dannecker in the belief that he had been directly
inspired from above. Others regarded it as a
dream produced by the intense activity of his
thoughts concentrated upon one subject ; but he
always viewed it as an immediate revelation. He
was fifty-eight years old when this sublime vision
was presented to him in his sleep, and for eight
years he devoted to it all the energies of mind and
heart. He studied the Scriptures intently, and
prayed for Divine assistance. His enthusiasm was
a compound of Religion and Art. Under this
combined influence, he said he felt as if he were
pursued by some irresistible power, which visited
him in his sleep, and often compelled him to rise
in the night and embody the ideas which had been
presented to him. When he was sixty-six years
old, the glorious statue was completed. It is
clothed in a simple robe reaching to the feet. The
hair is parted on the forehead, and falls in ringlets
over the shoulders. The head is purely moral
and intellectual in its outline. One hand is pressed
upon the bosom, the other extended, and the lips
are partially unclosed, as if in the act of speaking.
The expression is said to be a remarkable com-
bination of majesty and tenderness, exciting invol-
untary reverence in all who look upon it.
Mrs. Jameson visited Dannecker in 1830. The
statue was still standing in his studio. She says :
" He told me that the figure had visited him in a
dream three several times, and that he firmly
JOHN HENRY VON DANNECKER. 285
believed he had been predestined to the work, and
divinely inspired. I shall not easily forget the
countenance of the good and gifted old man, as he
leaned on the pedestal, with his cap in his hand,
and his long gray hair waving round his face,
looking up at his work with a mixture of rever-
ence and exultation."
This remarkable statue was purchased by the
Emperor Alexander, and is now in Russia. A
year after its completion, he made a colossal statue
of the Evangelist John, for the royal chapel at
Rothenberg. He had for many years been Pro-
fessor of the Fine Arts at the Academy in Stutt-
gard, and the instructions he was obliged to give
there, combined with the labors of his studio, kept
him very constantly occupied. Mrs. Jameson
again visited him in 1833, when he was seventy-
five years old. She says : " A change had come
over him. His trembling hand could no longer
grasp the mallet or guide the chisel. His fine
benevolent countenance wore a childish smile, and
was only now and then crossed by a gleam of
awakened memory or thought. Yet he seemed
perfectly happy. He walked backward and for-
ward from his statue of Christ to his bust of
Schiller, with an unwearied self-complacency, in
which there was something mournful, yet delight-
ful. While I was looking at the magnificent head
of Schiller, he took my hand, and trembling with
emotion, said, c We were friends from boyhood.
286 JOHN HENRY VON DANNECKER.
I worked upon it with love and grief; and one
can do no more.' I took leave of Dannecker with
emotion. I shall never see him again. But he is
one of those who cannot die. Canova, after he
was a melancholy invalid, visited his studio, and
was so much struck by his childlike simplicity,
his pure, unworldly nature, his genuine goodness,
and lively, happy temperament, that he gave him
the surname of II JBeato, The Blessed. And
surely if that epithet can with propriety be be-
stowed upon any mortal, jt is on him whose long
life has been one of labor and of love ; who has
left behind him lasting memorials of his genius ;
who has never profaned to any unworthy purpose
the talents which God has given him, but, in the
midst of all the beautiful and exciting influences
of Poetry and Art, has kept, from youth to age, a
soul serene, a conscience and a life pure in the
sight of God and man."
Longfellow, in his prose-poem called " Hyperi-
on, " thus introduces the renowned German artist,
on a calm Sabbath forenoon : — " Flemming stole
out into the deserted street, and went to visit the
veteran sculptor Dannecker. He found him in
his parlor, sitting alone, with his psalm-book and
the reminiscences of his long life. As Flemming
entered, he arose from the sofa and tottered to-
ward him ; a venerable old man, of low stature,
and dressed in a loose white jacket, with a face
like Franklin's, his white hair flowing over his
shoulders, and a pale blue eye.
JOHN HENRY VON DANNECKER. 287
" 4 So you are from America,' said he. ' I have
never been in America. I shall never go there.
I am now too old. I have been in Paris and in
Rome. But that was long ago. I am now sev-
enty-eight years old.'
" He took Flemming by the hand, and made him
sit by his side on the sofa. And Flemming felt a
mysterious awe creep over him, on touching the
hand of the good old man, who sat so serenely
amid the gathering shade of years, and listened to
life's curfew-bell, telling, with eight and seventy
solemn strokes, that the hour had come, when the
fires of all earthly passion must be quenched with-
in, and man must prepare to lie down and rest till
morning.
44 ' You see,' he continued, ' my hands are cold.
They were warmer once. I am now an old man.'
" ' Yet these are the hands that sculptured the
beautiful Ariadne and the Panther,' replied Flem-
ming. ' The soul never grows old.'
44 4 Nor does Nature,' said the old man, pleased
with this allusion to his great work, and pointing to
the green trees before his window. 4 This pleas-
ure I have left to me. My sight is still good. I
can even distinguish objects on the side of yonder
mountain. My hearing is also unimpaired. For
all which I thank God.'
44 Directing Flemming's attention to a fine engrav-
ing which hung on the opposite wall of the room,
he continued : 4 That is an engraving of Canova's
288 JOHN HENRY VON DANNECKER.
Religion. I love to sit here and look at it, for
hours together. It is beautiful. He made the
statue for his native town, where they had no
church, until he built them one. He placed the
statue in it. He sent me this engraving as a pres-
ent. Ah, he was a dear, good man ! The name
of his native town I have forgotten. My memory
fails me. I cannot remember names.'
" Fearful that he had disturbed the old man in
his morning devotions, Flemming did not remain
long ; but he took his leave with regret. There
was something impressive in the scene he had
witnessed ; — this beautiful old age of the artist ;
sitting by the open window, in the bright summer
morning ; the labor of life accomplished ; the hori-
zon reached, where heaven and earth meet ; think-
ing it was angel's music when he heard the church
bells ring ; himself too old to go. As he walked
back to his chamber, he thought within himself
whether he likewise might not accomplish some-
thing which should live after him ; — might not
bring something permanent out of this fast-fleeting
life of man, and then sit down, like the artist, in
serene old age, and fold his hands in silence. He
wondered how a man felt when he grew so old,
that .he could no longer go to church, but must sit
at home, and read the Bible in large print. His
heart was full of indefinite longings, mingled with
regrets ; longings to accomplish something worthy
of life ; regret that as yet he had accomplished
JOHN HENRY VON DANNECKER. 289
nothing, but had felt and dreamed only. Thus
the warm days in spring bring forth passion-
flowers and forget-me-nots. It is only after mid-
summer, when the days grow shorter and hotter,
that fruit begins to appear. Then the heat of
the day brings forward the harvest ; and after the
harvest, the leaves fall, and there is a gray frost.' '
Dannecker lived eighty-five years. His last
drawing, done when he was extremely old, rep-
resented an angel guiding an aged man
from the grave, and pointing to him
the opening heaven. It was
a beautiful occupation to
console the last days of
this trulv Chris-
tian artist's
life.
When a good man dies, — one that hath lived
innocently, — then the joys break forth through
the clouds of sickness, and the conscience stands
upright, and confesses the glories of God, and
owns so much integrity that it can hope for par-
don and obtain it too. Then the sorrows of sick-
ness do but untie the soul from its chain, and let it
go forth, first into liberty and then into glory.
Jeremy Taylor.
13 s
THE KITTEN AND THE FALLING
LEAVES.
By WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
THAT way look, my infant, lo !
What a pretty baby-show !
See the kitten on the wall,
Sporting with the leaves that fall !
Withered leaves — one, two, and three —
From the lofty Elder-tree !
— See the kitten ! how she starts,
Crouches, stretches, paws, and darts,
First at one, and then its fellow,
Just as light and just as yellow !
Such a light of gladness breaks,
Pretty kitten, from thy freaks,
Spreads, with such a living grace,
O'er my little Laura's face !
Yes, the sight so stirs and charms
Thee, baby, laughing in my arms,
That almost I could repine
That your transports are not mine ;
That I do not wholly fare
Even as ye do, thoughtless pair !
THE KITTEN AND THE LEAVES. 291
And I will have my careless season,
Spite of melancholy reason ;
Will walk through life in such a way,
That, when time brings on decay,
Now and then I may possess
Hours of perfect gladsomeness.
— Pleased by any random toy ;
By a kitten's busy joy,
Or an infant's laughing eye,
Sharing in the ecstasy.
I would fare like that, or this ;
Find my wisdom in my bliss ;
Keep the sprightly soul awake ;
And have faculties to take,
Even from things by sorrow wrought,
Matter for a jocund thought ;
Spite of care and spite of grief,
To gambol with Life's falling leaf.
His sixty summers — what are they in truth ?
By Providence peculiarly blest,
With him the strong hilarity of youth
Abides, despite gray hairs, a constant guest.
His sun has veered a point toward the west,
But light as dawn his heart is glowing yet, —
That heart the simplest, gentlest, kindliest, best,
Where truth and manly tenderness are met
With faith and heavenward hope, the suns that never set.
Henry Taylor.
DR. DODDRIDGE'S DREAM.
ff R. DODDRIDGE was on terms of
very intimate friendship with Dr. Sam-
uel Clarke, and in religious conversation
they spent many happy hours together.
Among other matters, a very favorite topic was
the intermediate state of the soul, and the proba-
bility that at the instant of dissolution it was not
introduced into the presence of all the heavenly
hosts, and the splendors around the throne of God.
One evening, after a conversation of this nature,
Dr. Doddridge retired to rest with his mind full
of the subject discussed, and, in the ' visions of
the night,' his ideas were shaped into the follow-
ing beautiful form. He dreamed that he was at
the house of a friend, when he was suddenly
taken dangerously ill. By degrees he seemed to
grow worse, and at last to expire. In an instant
he was sensible that he exchanged the prison-
house and sufferings of mortality for a state of
liberty and happiness. Embodied in a splendid
aerial form, he seemed to float in a region of pure
DR. DODDRIDGE'S DREAM. 293
light. Beneath him lay the earth ; but not a
glittering city or village, the forest or the sea, was
visible. There was naught to be seen below save
the melancholy group of friends, weeping around
his lifeless remains.
Himself thrilled with delight, he was surprised
at their tears, and attempted to inform them of 'his
change ; but, by some mysterious power, utter-
ance was denied ; and, as he anxiously leaned over
the mourning circle, gazing fondly upon them, and
struggling to speak, he rose silently upon the air ;
their forms became more and more distant, and
gradually melted away from his sight. Repos-
ing upon golden clouds, he found himself swiftly
mounting the skies, with a venerable figure at
his side guiding his mysterious movement, in
whose countenance he remarked the lineaments
of youth and age were blended together with an
intimate harmony and majestic sweetness. They
travelled through a vast region of empty space,
until at length the battlements of a glorious edifice
shone in the distance ; and as its form rose brilliant
and distinct among the far-off shadows that flitted
across their path, the guide informed him, that the
palace he beheld was for the present to be his
mansion of rest. Gazing upon its splendor, he
replied, that while on earth he had heard that eve
had not seen, nor had the ear heard, nor could it
enter into the heart of man to conceive, the things
which God had prepared for those who love him •
294 DR. DODDRIDGE'S DREAM.
but, notwithstanding the building to which they
were then rapidly approaching was superior to
anything he had ever before seen, yet its grandeur
did not exceed the conceptions he had formed.
They were already at the door, and the guide,
without reply, introduced him into a spacious
apartment, at the extremity of which stood a table
covered with a snow-white cloth, a golden cup,
and a cluster of grapes, and there he said he must
remain, for he would receive in a short time a
visit from the Lord of the mansion, and that,
during the interval before his arrival, the apart-
ment would furnish him with sufficient entertain-
ment and instruction. The guide vanished, and
he was left alone. He began to examine the
decorations of the room, and observed that the
walls were adorned with a number of pictures.
Upon nearer inspection, he found, to his astonish-
ment, that they formed a complete biography of
his own life. Here he saw, upon the canvas, that
angels, though unseen, had ever been his familiar
attendants ; that, sent by God, they had sometimes
preserved him from immediate peril. He beheld
himself first as an infant just expiring, when his
life was prolonged by an angel gently breathing
into his nostrils. Most of the occurrences here
delineated were perfectly familiar to his recollec-
tion, and unfolded many things which he had
never before understood, and which had perplexed
him with many doubts and much uneasiness.
DR. DODDRIDGE'S DREAM. 295
Among others, he was particularly struck with a
picture in which he was represented as falling
from his horse, when death would have been in-
evitable, had not an angel received him in his
arms, and broken the force of his descent. These
merciful interpositions of God filled him with joy
and gratitude ; and his heart overflowed with love
as he surveyed in them all an exhibition of good-
ness and mercy far beyond all that he had
imagined.
Suddenly his attention was arrested by a rap at
the door. The Lord of the mansion had arrived.
The door opened and he entered. So powerful
and so overwhelming, and withal of such singular
beauty, was his appearance, that he sank down
at his feet, completely overcome by his majestic
presence. His Lord gently raised him from the
ground, and taking his hands led him forward to
the table. He pressed with his fingers the juice
of the grapes into the cup, and after having drank
himself, presented it to him, saying, " This is the
new wine in my Father's kingdom." No sooner
had he partaken, than all uneasy sensations van-
ished. Perfect love had cast out fear, and he
conversed with his Saviour as an intimate friend.
Like the silver rippling of the summer sea, he
heard fall from his lips the grateful approbation :
" Thy labors are over ; thy work is approved ;
rich and glorious is thy reward." Thrilled with
an unspeakable bliss, that glided into the very
296 DR. DODDRIDGE'S DREAM.
depth of his soul, he suddenly saw glories upon
glories bursting upon his view. The Doctor
awoke. Tears of rapture from this joyful inter-
view were rolling down his cheeks. Long
did the lively impressions of this charm-
ing dream remain upon his mind,
and never could he speak
of it without emotions
of joy and ten-
derness.
r
Death can only take away the sorrowful from
our affections. The flower expands ; the colorless
film that enveloped it falls off and perishes. We
may well believe this ; and, believing it, let us
cease to be disquieted for their absence, who have
but retired into another chamber. We are like
those who have overslept the hour : when we
rejoin our friends, there is only the more joyance
and congratulation. Would we break a precious
vase because it is as capable of containing the
bitter as the sweet ? No : the very things which
touch us the most sensibly are those which we
should be the most reluctant to forget. The no-
ble mansion is most distinguished by the beautiful
images it retains of beings passed away ; and so is
the noble mind.
Walter Savage Landok.
THE OLD PSALM-TUNE.
Br HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.
YOU asked, dear friend, the other day,
Why still my charmed ear
Rejoiceth in uncultured tone
That old psalm-tune to hear.
I Ve heard full oft, in foreign lands,
The grand orchestral strain,
Where music's ancient masters live,
Revealed on earth again :
Where breathing, solemn instruments,
In swaying clouds of sound,
Bore up the yearning, tranced soul,
Like silver wings around ; —
I Ve heard in old St. Peter's dome,
When clouds of incense rise,
Most ravishing the choral swell
Mount upward to the skies.
And well I feel the magic power,
When skilled and cultured art
Its cunning webs of sweetness weaves
Around the captured heart.
13*
298 THE OLD PSALM-TUNE.
But yet, dear friend, though rudely sung,
That old psalm-tune hath still
A pulse of power beyond them all
My inmost soul to thrill.
Those tones, that halting sound to you,
Are not the tones I hear ;
But voices of the loved and lost
Then meet my longing ear.
I hear my angel mother's voice, —
Those were the words she sung ;
I hear my brother's ringing tones,
As once on earth they rung ;
And friends that walk in white above
Come round me like a cloud,
And far above those earthly notes
Their singing sounds aloud.
There may be discord, as you say ;
Those voices poorly ring ;
But there 's no discord in the strain
Those upper spirits sing.
For they who sing are of the blest,
The calm and glorified,
Whose hours are one eternal rest
On heaven's sweet floating tide.
Their life is music and accord ;
Their souls and hearts keep time
In one sweet concert with the Lord, —
One concert vast, sublime.
THE OLD PSALM-TUNE. 299
And through the hymns they sang on earth
Sometimes a sweetness falls,
On those they loved and left below,
And softly homeward calls.
Bells from our own dear fatherland,
Borne trembling o'er the sea —
The narrow sea that they have crossed,
The shores where we shall be.
O sing, sing on ! beloved souls ;
Sing cares and griefs to rest ;
Sing, till entranced we arise
To join you 'mid the blest.
O, thus forever sing to me !
O, thus forever !
The green bright grass of childhood bun** to me
Flowing like an emerald rive*y
And the bright blue skies above !
O, sing them back as fresh as ever,
Into the bosom of my love, —
The sunshine and the merriment.
The unsought, evergreen content.
Of that never cold time,
The joy, that, like a clear breeze, went
Through and through the old time !
J. E. Lowell.
THE LOST BOOKS OF LIVY.
[It is well known that all the books of the Middle Ages were
written by monks, and preserved in manuscript ; printing being
then an unknown art. These patient scribes had plenty of lei-
sure, and not unfrequently an eye for artistic beauty, especially in
the gorgeous style. Hence many monastic manuscripts were
richly illuminated, as the phrase is, with Initial Letters of silver
or gold, often surrounded with quaint devices, painted in glowing
tints of blue, crimson, and purple. Paper was not then invented,
and parchment was scarce. Monks generally held Greeks and
Romans in contempt, as heathen, and therefore did not scruple to
supply themselves with writing material by erasing the produc-
tions of classic authors. Early in the nineteenth century it was
announced that Signor Maio, an Italian librarian, had discovered
valuable Greek and Latin fragments concealed under monkish
manuscripts, and that, by chemical processes, he could remove
the later writing and bring the ancient to the surface. In this
way, " The Republic," of Cicero, deemed one of his finest works,
was brought out from under a Commentary of St. Augustine on
the Psalms of David. Such parchments are called Palimpsests ;
from two Greek words, which signify erased and re- written. The
discovery was very exciting to the scholastic world, and many
learned men entered into it with absorbing interest. Several of
the books of Livy's lively and picturesque History of Rome are
lost ; and it was a cherished hope among scholars that they
might be discovered by this new process. This explanation is
THE LOST BOOKS OF LIVY. 301
necessary to help some readers to a right understanding of the
following story, which is abridged and slightly varied from an
English book, entitled, " Stories by an Archaeologist."]
| Y dear friend, Dubois d'Erville, whose
talents might have rendered him re-
markable in any walk of literature,
allowed the whole of his faculties to
be absorbed in days, nights, years of research,
upon one special point of literary interest. At
school, he had become imbued with a love for
classic authors, which, with regard to his favorite
Livy, kindled into a passion. He sought eagerly
for accounts of discoveries of lost works in pa-
limpsest manuscripts. Finally, he relinquished all
other objects of pursuit, and spent many years
traversing Europe and Asia, visiting the public
libraries and old monasteries, in search of ancient
manuscripts. After a long time, when he was for-
gotten by family, friends, and acquaintances, he
returned to Paris. Little was known of his wan-
derings ; but there was a rumor that he formed a
romantic marriage, and that his devoted wife had
travelled with him among the monasteries of Asia
Minor, encountering many hardships and dangers.
No one but himself knew where she died.
When he returned to Paris, he brought with
him an only child, a girl of nineteen. She had
memorable beauty, and great intelligence ; but these
were less noticed than her simple manners, and
tender devotion to her father, whom she almost
302 THE LOST BOOKS OF LIVY.
adored. He took a suite of apartments in the
third story of a house, which, before the Revolu-
tion, had been the hotel of a nobleman, and sur-
rounded by extensive gardens. It was in the old
and solitary Rue Cassette. The gardens had been
let out to cow-keepers ; but within the enclosure
of the house remained some noble trees and flow-
ering shrubs. These apartments had been selected
by his daughter Marcelline, on account of the grace-
ful branches of the old lime-trees, which reached
close to the windows, and furnished a pleasant
shade in summer, when birds chirped gayly among
the green foliage. Even in winter, a robin would
sometimes sing snatches of song, among the naked
branches, as if in return for the crumbs which his
pretty patroness never failed to place on the win-
dow-sill.
Beyond Marcelline's chamber was a little sitting-
room, and then came a rather large apartment,
where Dubois pursued his studies, surrounded
with piles of old vellum, and dusty and worm-
eaten manuscripts of all descriptions. The floor
was thus littered in all directions, except in a small
semicircle near one of the windows, where an open
space was preserved for a few chairs and a table.
They had but one servant, an old woman, who
had been cook in Dubois's family in the days of his
boyhood, and whom he accidentally met when he
returned to Paris. Old Madeleine formed a pleas-
ant link between the present and the past. Often,
THE LOST BOOKS OF LIVY. 303
when she passed through his study, he would
remind her of some prank he had played in early
days, and ask her if she remembered it, with such
a frank, good-natured smile, that the old servant
would smile too ; though there was always a tinge
of melancholy in her recollections of his boyish
roguery. Often, when she left the room, she
would shake her head, and mutter to herself, " Ah,
young Monsieur Armand was so good, so kind, so
gentle ! Only to think that he should leave all his
family and friends, and pass his life nobody knows
where ! Ah ! it is very mysterious. And the
bright, curly hair, that I used to pat with such
fondness, to think that I should never see him
again, till all that is left of it is a few silver locks
about his temples ! ' She tried to gain from Mar-
celline some particulars about her mother ; but the
young girl had only a vague recollection of a form
that used to press her to her heart, during journeys
through strange countries, and who had long disap-
peared. She remembered something of a time when
her father's tall, upright figure suddenly bent under
the weight of some great sorrow, from which it
never rose erect again. Then, when she grew older,
they lived for years in Italian cities, where there
were great libraries ; whence they came to Paris.
Nothing could be more delightful than the af-
fectionate congeniality between father and daugh-
ter. Their favorite pursuits, though different, had
a kind of affinity which rendered their quiet ex-
304 THE LOST BOOKS OF LIVY.
istence very pleasant. Marcelline had a taste for
painting ; and her father's mania for old manu-
scripts furnished her with many opportunities for
examining the exquisite miniatures and ornamental
illuminations, with which monkish manuscripts
were frequently enriched. When new manu-
scripts arrived, which they did almost daily, her
first impulse was to examine whether they con-
tained any illuminations worthy of note ; and if
so, to copy them with the utmost care and accu-
racy. She had thus formed a very beautiful col-
lection, in which she felt an interest almost as
enthusiastic as that of her father in his long pur-
suit of a treasure, which, like the horizon, seemed
always in sight, but w r as never reached.
In the midst of the charming, harmonious rou-
tine of this little household, slight contentions
would sometimes arise ; but they were sure to
end, like the quarrels of lovers, in a renewal of
love. Sometimes a manuscript arrived which con-
tained exquisite illuminations ; but Dubois, think-
ing it might be a palimpsest, regarded the orna-
ments as so many abominations, concealing some
treasure of classic literature. So the mediaeval
romance, with its matchless miniatures, and intri-
cate borderings, glowing with gilding, purple, and
crimson, would soon disappear beneath the sponge,
soap, and acids of the indefatigable seeker after
The Lost Books of Livy. These occasions were
sad trials for Marcelline. She would beg for a
THE LOST BOOKS OF LIVY. 305
week's delay, just to copy the most beautiful of
the illuminations. But if Dubois thought he could
perceive traces of erasure under the gorgeous
ornaments, he was as impatient as a miner who
fancies he sees indications of a vein of gold.
When Marcelline saw the sponge trembling in his
hand, so eager to commence the work of oblitera-
tion, she would turn away with a painful sense of
what seemed to her a cruel desecration. She felt
that the sacrifice was due to the cause in which her
father had enlisted all the energies of his life ; but
the ruthless destruction of all those quaint and del-
icately beautiful works of art caused her a pang
she could not quite conceal. In spite of herself, a
tear would glisten in her eye ; and the moment
her father perceived it, his resolution melted. He
would place the manuscript in her hand, and say,
" There, there, my child ! a whole week if you
want it ; and then bring it to me, if you have
quite done with it." Then she would reply, " No,
no, dear father. Your object is too important to
be hindered by the whims of a foolish girl." He
would press it upon her, and she would refuse it ;
and as the combat of love went on, the old man's
eyes would fill with tears. Then Marcelline would
give way, and take the proffered manuscript ; and
Dubois, with all the attentive politeness of a young
lover, would arrange her desk, and her pieces of
new vellum, and place the volume in a good light.
Not till he had seen her fairly at work at her
306 TELE LOST BOOKS OF LIVY.
charming task, could he tear himself away ; and then
not without pressing her hand, and nodding to her,
as though they were going to part for some long
period. She would nod too ; and then they both
nodded together, smiling at their own affectionate
folly, with tears glistening in their eyes. Then
Dubois would go to his study, and among his
heaps of manuscripts, bound and unbound, rolled
or folded, he would soon be immersed in the in-
tricacies of his old pursuit.
After a while, the even current of their happy
life became varied by the visits of a third person.
When old Madeleine came to live with them, Du-
bois often questioned her concerning the relatives
and friends he had known in his boyhood. Her
answer was, invariably, " Dead." It seemed as if
all the old he inquired for were dead, and all the
young either dead or scattered. During one of
these conversations, he said, " What has become
of Uncle Debaye, who used to prophesy that I
should be a member of the Academy, and one of
the illustrious men of France ? Ah, he was a
pleasant specimen of the old bachelor and the hon
vivant ! Where is he?" "He is dead, too,"
replied Madeleine ; " but he did not remain an old
bachelor and a hon vivant. He married, some two
and twenty years ago, and gave up his old luxuri-
ous habits for the sake of supporting his pretty
young wife. He even left off cigars and snuff, to
supply her with little luxuries. She is dead, too.
THE LOST BOOKS OF LIVY. 307
But they had a very pretty child, little Hyppolite,
who is a young man now." " Then it seems that
I have one relative remaining," said Dubois ; " but
I suppose he has gone off to America, or Austra-
lia, or somewhere." " No, Monsieur," rejoined
Madeleine, " he is in Paris. He got a situation
out by the Barri£re du Trone, where he has two
thousand francs a year, and apartments in the fac-
tory to live in besides. I often meet him on a
Sunday, in the gardens of the Luxembourg, and
many a forty sous has he given me."
Dubois was pleased to find that he had one rela-
tive left, and Madeleine was commissioned to tell
him that his father's brother-in-law, his uncle by
marriage, had returned to Paris, and would be
glad to see him. The young man came soon after,
and father and daughter were both pleased with
their new-found kinsman. He was not very intel-
lectual or learned ; but he was lively, good-natured,
and good-looking. He brought the living, moving
world of the present into those secluded apart-
ments, so entirely consecrated to the works and
thoughts of ages long past. His free-and-easy
conversation, without a single phrase smacking of
libraries, or art-galleries, or any kind of learning,
seemed a bright sparkling stream of young care-
less life. His uncle listened willingly to his gos-
siping anecdotes, told with a certain appreciation
of the comic, in a clear, ringing voice, and with
good-natured laughter. Hyppolite became a very
308 THE LOST BOOKS OF LIVY.
welcome visitor ; and, after a while, if lie did not
appear on the days when he was regularly ex-
pected, a shadow of disappointment was cast over
the little household in the Rue Cassette.
Thus things went on for some time. Marcelline
daily added to her collection of exquisite fac-similes,
and her father labored diligently in the cause to
which he had devoted his life. He did not obtain
the result he so ardently desired ; but his perse-
verance was not without reward. On two occa-
sions he discovered works of great importance, in
a literary point of view, covered over with a mass
of old law transactions ; and the sums he obtained
for them enabled him greatly to increase his stock
of manuscripts. He soon became so well known
to all who dealt in such articles, that every new
importation was offered to him, before it was
shown elsewhere.
Meanwhile Marcelline received increasing pleas-
ure from the visits of Hyppolite. She began to
suspect that the trivial chat uttered in that fresh
young voice, with occasional peals of ringing
laughter, possessed for her a greater charm than
the noble words of her father, always teeming with
knowledge and interest of various kinds. She
shrunk from admitting this to herself. She would
not believe it, but she had an uneasy suspicion of
it. As for Hyppolite, his walk of two or three
miles, to visit his new-found relatives, became his
greatest pleasure. He found innumerable oppor-
THE LOST BOOKS OF LIVY. 309
trinities of making the Rue Cassette the shortest
cut to one or other of the distant quarters of
Paris, where the business of his employers carried
him, though in fact it was often miles out of his
way. To gratify Marcelline's peculiar taste, he
frequently brought her ornaments cut from the
pages of old illuminated manuscripts. When asked
where he obtained them, he would merely laugh,
and say he would bring some more soon. Dubois
began to remonstrate against the barbarism of mu-
tilating manuscripts in that way ; but Hyppolite
would point to the piles of manuscripts from which
he had washed both ornaments and writing, and
would put on such a comic look, and laugh so
merrily, that his uncle could not help laughing,
too.
One calm summer evening, Dubois had gone to
the busy part of Paris, and Marcelline sat at the
window, busily employed in copying a noble group
of illuminated letters from a gorgeous manuscript
of the twelfth century, which stood on the desk
before her. The window was open, and the air
gently moved the leaves of crisp vellum, with their
antique writing and their curious enrichments. The
massive silver clasps of the great folio hung back
and glistened in the evening light. As the young
artist looked up at her model, she felt tempted to
make a drawing of the whole superb volume, in-
stead of the especial group of letters she was copy-
ing. The foliage of the lime-trees moved gently
310 THE LOST BOOKS OF LIVY.
in the warm evening breeze, and a linnet, hidden
in its recesses, was singing his vesper hymn. Mar-
celline felt very happy. The balmy hour, the
congenial employment, and the bright halo of her
twenty young years, threw around her an atmos-
phere of soft, pure, gentle pleasure. Thoughts
of more homely things mingled with her poetic
mood. She thought of the choice little supper
Madeleine was preparing for her father, and she
tried to conjecture when he would arrive.
The current of her ideas was interrupted by the
ringing of the bell on the landing, and Madeleine
announced the arrival of Monsieur Hyppolite.
An uncontrollable thrill lifted her heart with one
great bound. For a moment the illuminated vol-
ume, the sweet summer breeze, the tuneful linnet,
and the little supper for her father, were all for-
gotten. By a strong effort she recovered herself,
however, and received Hyppolite as usual ; per-
haps a little more coolly, for she was inwardly
shocked to find that his presence had power, even
for a moment, to obliterate the pleasures and
affections she had always deemed so sacred. He
brought two beautifully illuminated letters, that
had evidently formed part of a very fine Italian
manuscript. Being in an unusual style of art,
they attracted her attention, and diverted her
thoughts from the channel they had taken. She
reseated herself at her work ; and while he watched
her skilful pencil tracing the intricate interlacings
THE LOST BOOKS OF LIVY. 311
of various and many-colored lines and brandies,
he sought to entertain her with his usual light
chat. But Marcelline did not respond so gayly
as she was accustomed to do, and he grew un-
wontedly silent ; so silent, that the song of the
linnet was heard again, and no other sound dis-
turbed the stillness. At last, Hyppolite, with a
great effort, and as if something choked his usual
clear utterance, said, " Marcelline, you must have
long perceived that I — " she rose hastily, ex-
claiming, " O don't say that word ! Don't say
it ! To break the holy spell of filial affection
which has always bound my heart, would be
sacrilege." But Hyppolite knelt at her feet, and
poured forth the fervid language that comes to
all when the heart is kindled by a first love.
Marcelline turned away her head and wept. The
bitter tears, not without sweetness, relieved the
deep trouble of her heart. She resumed her seat,
and told her cousin decidedly, but kindly, that
he must never speak to her of love while her
dear father lived ; that she could never allow any
earthly^ affection to come between her and him.
The young man, in the midst of his disappoint-
ment, could not but wish that his uncle might live
long ; for he truly loved his genial nature., and
regarded his great learning with almost super-
stitious veneration. He held out his hand, saying,
" My cousin, it is the hand of friendship." She
pressed it kindly, and gently admonished him that
312 THE LOST BOOKS OF LIVY.
his visits must be less frequent. After a brief
struggle he resigned himself to her guidance, and
recovered his equanimity, if not his usual gayety.
All was peaceful and pleasant when Dubois re-
turned, and Hyppolite was urged to stay and
partake of the choice little supper.
The household continued to go on in the old
quiet way, varied occasionally by visits from an-
tiquarians and learned men. On such occasions,
it was charming to hear Dubois descant on his
favorite topics with the enthusiasm and beautiful
flow of language which they always excited.
Marcelline was often appealed to in these discus-
sions ; for her intimate knowledge of the beauties
of illumination enabled her to judge the age of
a manuscript, by delicate peculiarities in its orna-
ments, more readily than learned men could do
by the character of the writing or the nature of
the subject. Hyppolite, who was sometimes pres-
ent by special invitation, would sit apart, drinking
in every delicate epithet and daintly selected word
uttered by his cousin, as though they were heaven-
distilled drops of nectar.
One morning, Dubois rushed into his daughter's
apartment, eagerly exclaiming, " Eureka ! Eureka !
I have found it ! I have found it ! My name will
go down to posterity joined with that of Livy ! At
last I have found The Lost Books ! " Joyfully, he
drew his daughter into his study, and there, spread
upon the floor, were several sheets of vellum still
THE LOST BOOKS OF LIVY. 313
wet from the action of his sponge. The more
recent writing had been removed, and traces of a
nearly erased manuscript, apparently of the tenth
century, was gradually becoming more distinct
under the influence of a preparation he had ap-
plied. The old man drew himself up as he pointed
to it, and looking proudly at his daughter, said,
44 The labor of my life has been well expended.
It will be my great privilege to be the first among
moderns to read the whole of the noble history of
Livy ; for I believe the whole is there." He in-
sisted that Hyppolite should be sent for to hear
the glad tidings. The good-natured youth has-
tened to the Rue Cassette, and congratulated his
uncle upon his great discovery. He did not, in-
deed, understand the importance of the recovered
annals, for he thought we had a tolerably com-
plete history of Rome without these famous Lost
Books, but he cordially sympathized with the joy
of his uncle and cousin. It was a day marked
with u a white stone ' ' in the annals of the quiet
little family. In honor of the occasion, a bottle
of the choice wine called Chateaux Margaux,
was placed on the generally frugal little dinner-
table, and the sun traced upon it bright lights and
shadows through the branches of the lime-trees,
as if to aid in the celebration.
Day by day, more pages of the palimpsest were
prepared, and the ancient text developed itself so
. well, that the exulting Dubois resolved to invite
14
314 THE LOST BOOKS OF LIVY.
his most learned friends to a grand evening re-
union, in honor of his discovery. A lithographed
circular was accordingly prepared, and sent round
in due form. It brought together a select party
of the knowing ones in such matters. Dubois was
all smiles and urbanity. In the fluent language, of
which he had extraordinary command, he related
the successive details of his discovery. He deemed
himself the most fortunate of men. His heart was
running over with enthusiasm. His hearers were
charmed with the copious flood of eloquence that
he poured forth without stint, full of the deepest
erudition, yet warmed and embellished by a per-
vading gleam of amiable exhilaration, and inno-
cent exultation over the triumphant result of his
life-long labors. The sheets of the recovered
manuscript were placed in a good light, and eager-
ly examined through many pairs of glittering spec-
tacles and powerful microscopes. It obviously
related to that portion of Roman history lost from
the books of Livy, but many doubts were expressed
whether it were written by that great historian.
Peculiarities of orthography and style were ad-
duced to prove that the writer must have been
a monk. But Dubois ingeniously converted every
objection into an additional proof that they had
before them the identical Lost Books of Livy.
The animated discussion was interrupted by the
entrance of Madeleine, who said that two men were
at the door, with old manuscripts to sell. Dubois
THE LOST BOOKS OF LIVY. 315
could never resist the temptation to examine must j
vellum, and he ordered them to be shown in. The
manuscripts did not prove to be of any value ;
and Madeleine was very glad to close the door
upon the intruders, for she did not like their looks.
A similar impression seemed to have been made
on the company ; for several of them remarked
that it was hazardous to introduce men of that
stamp into a room filled with books clasped with
silver, and with many other ancient articles of cu-
rious workmanship, some of them in the precious
metals. But Dubois laughed at the idea that any-
body would think of robbing a poor book-antiqua-
rian of his musty treasures, though some of them
were clasped with silver.
The dimensions of the table were enlarged by
piles of huge folios, and Madeleine spread it with
choice viands, in the discussion of which the style
and orthography of Livy were for a while forgot-
ten. The lively sallies of Hyppolite, his funny
anecdotes, and descriptions of practical jokes, be-
gan to entertain the guests more than their own
conversation. His merry, thrilling laugh became
infectious. First, his pretty cousin joined in with
her silvery treble ; then Dubois ; then all of them.
No one, listening to this hilarious chorus, would
have supposed the company consisted of the most
profound scholars that ever enlightened the halls
of the Institute or the Academy.
Dubois went to sleep that happy night dreaming
316 THE LOST BOOKS OF LIVY.
of new discoveries among the as yet unrestored
leaves of his precious palimpsest. He was wak-
ened very early in the morning by a loud knock
at his door, and heard the voice of old Madeleine
crying out, " Monsieur Dubois ! Monsieur Du-
bois ! Get up ! Pray get up immediately ! " He
hurried on his dressing-gown, and found Madeleine
in the middle of his study, her eyes streaming with
tears. The room where he had heaped up so many
treasures, where he had spent so many hours of
calm happiness, where he had the last evening
enjoyed so much, was empty. The pile of folios,
the rows of richly-bound manuscripts, with the
velvet covers and silver clasps, his precious pa-
limpsest, and even the bundles of musty vellum,
had all disappeared. The window was open, and
the little curtain torn ; plainly indicating how the
robbers had obtained entrance into his sanctuary.
The linnet was singing a morning song in the lime-
trees, and the early sun checkered the empty floor
with bright light and quivering shadows of the foli-
age. It seemed as if the sweet sounds and the bril-
liant rays were rejoicing over a scene of gladness,
instead of such utter desolation and wretchedness.
No words can describe the pangs which wrung
the heart of poor Dubois, thus suddenly anc
strangely deprived of the treasure which he hac
spent all the energies of his life in discovering.
For a moment, his eyes glared with rage, like those
of a tiger deprived of her young. Then he clasped
THE LOST BOOKS' OF LIVY. 317
his trembling hands, and fell heavily, nearly faint-
ing, into his chair. Alarmed by the sound of his
fall, Marcelline came running in. It was long be-
fore she and old Madeleine could rouse him from
his lethargy. At last, his stupefied senses were
awakened and concentrated by his daughter's re-
peated assurances that the lost treasure would be
recovered if an immediate pursuit were instituted.
" It is not likely," said she, " that we shall recover
the richly-illuminated manuscripts, in their valua-
ble bindings ; or the carved ivories ; or those co-
dices written in gold upon grounds of purple ; but
the sheets of that old palimpsest, with its half-
obliterated characters, and the old volume contain-
ing the rest of the work, cannot possibly be of use
to anybody but yourself. Those can surely be
recovered."
A flood of passionate tears came to her father's
relief. His usual calmness was restored ; and
after drinking a cup of coffee, urged upon him by
the kind old Madeleine, he hurried forth to give
information to the police, and to make all possible
efforts to recover his treasures.
Some fragments of parchment were found under
the lime-trees, but no further traces were discov-
ered, till late in the forenoon it was ascertained
that one of the richly-bound manuscripts had been
offered to a dealer for sale. In the afternoon, an-
other clew was obtained from a waste-paper dealer,
who described a quantity of parchment brought to
318 THE LOST BOOKS OF LIVY.
him that morning, which he had not, however, pur-
chased. From the description, it appeared that
the precious palimpsest was among these bundles.
Dubois's hopes were kindled by this information.
He was recommended to go to the establishments
of various dealers in such articles in remote quar-
ters of the city, and, accompanied by the police,
he made diligent search. Only one more remained,
and that was close to the Barriere du Trone.
Arrived at this establishment, Dubois was sur-
prised to see his nephew mounted aloft at a desk
in the inner warehouse ; for he had never inquired
concerning the nature of the factory in which he
was employed. As soon as Hyppolite perceived
his uncle, he hurried forward to welcome him,
and told him he had intended to call at the Rue
Cassette that day, for he had just obtained pos-
session of two illuminated letters that he wished
to present to Mademoiselle Marcelline. He took
two slips of vellum from his desk ; " See," said
he, " these are very much in the style of that old
Roman History you were exhibiting to the com-
pany last night."
" Very much in the style ! ' exclaimed Dubois,
his eyes glistening with delight. " They are
identical! Where did you get them?"
" Our foreman sent them down to me," re-
joined Hyppolite. " We purchase enormous quan-
tities of old parchment, and frequently a few
painted letters are found in the mass. Our man-
THE LOST BOOKS OF LIVY. 319
ager, in compliance with my request, cuts them
out and reserves them for me."
" Then the vellum from which they were cut
is here ? "
" Yes, it is, uncle ; but why are you so agi-
tated ? "
u Dubois briefly related the circumstances of
the robbery ; and wiping the cold perspiration
from his brow, he added: "But all is safe now!
I would not walk twenty paces to recover all the
silver-clasped volumes, if I can only hold once
more the musty palimpsest which contains that
priceless treasure, — The Lost Books of Livy ! "
The flush faded from Hyppolite's ruddy cheek.
"There is not a moment to be lost! ' exclaimed
he. " Follow me, dear uncle."
Away he ran across court-yards, through long
warehouses filled with merchandise, and up flights
of stairs, two steps at a bound. Dubois, highly
excited, followed with the activity of youth.
They reached a small room adjoining an enormous
mass of lofty chimneys, from which heavy col-
umns of smoke rolled away before the wind.
" Where is the lot of old vellum that came
this morning ? " gasped Hyppolite,, all out of
breath.
A man who was busy checking off accounts,
asked, " Do you mean the lot from which you
cut those two letters ? "
" Yes, yes," replied Hyppolite. u Where is it ?
Where is it ? It is very important I "
S20 THE LOST BOOKS OF LIVY.
" Let me see," said the man. " It was lot
number fourteen, purchased at eight o'clock this
morning. We happened to be very short of vel-
lum, and I gave out that new lot directly." He
opened a creaking door, and called out, " Pierre !
Pierre ! what was the number of the lot you put
in last?"
" Number fourteen," replied a deep voice with-
in ; and the door closed again, with dinning rattle
of rope and weight.
" It is too late," said the foreman, turning to
Hyppolite. " It went in at eleven o'clock."
" Went in f Went in where ? ' exclaimed
Dubois, turning first to Hyppolite, and then to
the foreman, with a look of haggard anxiety.
" Into the boiler," replied Hyppolite, taking his
uncle's hand. " This is a gelatine manufactory.
We boil down tons of old parchment every year."
• • • • •
It was long before Dubois recovered from the
shock he had received ; but he did finally recover.
He began to accumulate fresh bibliographical
treasures around him, and many pleasant evenings
were spent in those old apartments. But his
former enthusiasm never returned. Any new
discovery in the field of his research no longer
excited a rapid flow of ardent words, but . was
merely indicated by a faint smile. He was al-
ways kindly and genial, and was only roused to
an occasional word or look of bitterness when
THE LOST BOOKS OF LIVY. 321
some circumstance happened to remind him of
the treasure he had lost. " To think that what I
had been hunting for all my life should be found
only to be lost in a pot of gelatine ! ' he would
exclaim, indignantly. Then he would fall into
a silence which no one ventured to disturb. But,
with a slight sigh, and a quiver of his gray locks,
he would soon dismiss the subject from his mind,
and change the conversation.
If he ever felt regret at having expended all
the energies of his life among the dim shadows
of the past, no one ever heard him express the
feeling. And this was wise ; for his habits were
too firmly fixed to be changed. He lived with
his dear old volumes as with friends. The mo-
notony of his life was soothed by a daughter's love,
and cheered by the kind attentions of his gay
young nephew. His uncommon talents and learn-
ing left no traces behind them, and his name
passed away as do the pleasant clouds of twilight.
Hyppolite's constant love was rewarded by the
heart and hand of Marcelline ; and the two
who most reverenced the old man's learn-
ing, and most tenderly cherished the
memory of his genial character,
lived to talk of them often to
each other, and to teach
them to their de-
scendants.
14*
?
TO ONE WHO WISHED ME SIX-
TEEN YEARS OLD.
By ALICE CARY.
SUPPOSE your hand with power supplied,
Say, would you slip it 'neath my hair,
And turn it to the golden side
Of sixteen years ? Suppose you dare,
And I stood here with smiling mouth,
Red cheeks, and hands all softly white,
Exceeding beautiful with youth,
And that some tiptoe-treading sprite
Brought dreams as bright as they could be,
To keep the shadows from my brow,
And plucked down hearts to pleasure me,
As you would roses from a bough*
What could I do then ? Idly wear,
While all my mates went on before,
The bashful looks and golden hair
Of sixteen years ! and nothing more ?
SIXTEEN YEARS OLD. 323
Nay, done with youth are my desires,
Life has no pain I fear to meet ;
Experience, with its dreadful fires,
Melts knowledge to a welding heat.
And all its fires of heart and brain,
Where purpose into power was wrought,
I 'd bear, and gladly bear again,
Eather than be put back a thought.
So, sigh no more, my gentle friend,
That I am at the time of day
When white hair comes, and heart-beats send
No blushes through the cheeks astray.
For could you mould my destiny,
As clay, within your loving hand,
I 'd leave my youth's sweet company,
And suffer back to where I stand.
THE SILVERY HEAD.
Though youth may boast the curls that flow,
In sunny waves of auburn glow,
As graceful, on thy hoary head,
Has time the robe of honor spread,
And there, O, softly, softly shed
His wreath of snow.
Felicia Hemans.
GROWING OLD.*
ADDRESSED TO UNMARRIED WOMEN.
T is a trying crisis in life to feel that
you have had your fair half at least
of the ordinary term of years allotted
to mortals ; that you have no right to
expect to be any handsomer, or stronger, or hap-
pier than you are now ; that you have climbed
to the summit of life, whence the next step must
necessarily be decadence. The air may be as fresh,
the view as grand, still you know that, slower or
faster, you are going down hill. It is not a pleas-
ant descent at the beginning. It is rather trying
when, from long habit, you unwittingly speak of
yourself as a " girl," to detect a covert smile on
the face of your interlocutor ; or, when led by
some chance excitement to deport yourself in an
ultra-youthful manner, some instinct warns you
that you are making yourself ridiculous ; or, catch-
ing in some strange looking-glass the face you are
* 'From Miss Muloch's " Thoughts about Women."
GROWING OLD. 325
too familiar with to notice much, ordinarily, you
suddenly become aware that it is not a young
face, and will never be a young face again. With
most people, the passing from maturity to middle
age is so gradual as to be almost imperceptible to
the individual concerned. There is no denying
this fact, and it ought to silence many an ill-na-
tured remark upon those unlucky ones who insist
upon remaining " young ladies of a certain age."
It is very difficult for a woman to recognize that
she is growing old ; and to all, this recognition
cannot but be fraught with considerable pain.
Even the most sensible woman cannot fairly put
aside her youth, with all it has enjoyed, or lost,
or missed, and regard it as henceforth to be con-
sidered a thing gone by, without a momentary
spasm of the heart.
To " grow old gracefully ' is a good and beau-
tiful thing ; to grow old worthily is a better.
And the first effort to that end is to become rec-
onciled to the fact of youth's departure ; to have
faith in the wisdom of that which we call change,
but which is in truth progression ; to follow openly
and fearlessly, in ourselves and our daily life, the
same law which makes spring pass into summer,
summer into autumn, and autumn into winter,
preserving an especial beauty and fitness in each
of the four.
If women could only believe it, there is a won-
derful beauty even in growing old. The charm
326 GROWING OLD.
of expression, arising from softened temper or
ripened intellect, often atones amply for the loss
of form and coloring ; consequently, to those who
could never boast of either of these latter, years
give much more than they take away. A sen-
sitive person often requires half a lifetime to get
thoroughly used to this corporeal machine ; to
attain a wholesome indifference both to its defects
and perfections ; and to learn at last what nobody
would acquire from any 'teacher but experience,
that it is the mind alone which is of any conse-
quence. With good temper, sincerity, and a mod-
erate stock of brains, or even with the two former
only, any sort of a body can in time be made
a useful, respectable, and agreeable travelling-dress
for the soul. Many a one who was absolutely
plain in youth, thus grows pleasant and well-
looking in declining years. You will seldom find
anybody, not ugly in mind, who is repulsively
ugly in person after middle life.
So it is with character. However we may talk
about people being "not a whit altered," "just
the same as ever"; the fact is, not one of us is,
or can be, for long together, exactly the same.
The body we carry with us is not the identical
body we were born with, or the one we supposed
ours seven years ago ; and our spiritual self, which
inhabits it, also goes through perpetual change
and renewal. In moral and mental, as well as
in physical growth, it is impossible to remain
GROWING OLD. 327
stationary. If we do not advance, we retrograde.
Talk of being " too late to improve," " too old to
learn " ! A human being should be improving
with every day of a lifetime ; and will probably
have to go on learning throughout all the ages
of immortality.
One of the pleasures of growing old is, to know,
to acquire, to find out, to be able to appreciate the
causes of things ; this gradually becomes a neces-
sity and an exquisite delight. We are able to
pass out of our own small daily sphere, and to take
interest in the marvellous government of the uni-
verse ; to see the grand workings of cause and
effect ; the educing of good out of apparent evil ;
the clearing away of the knots in tangled destinies,
general or individual ; the wonderful agency of
time, change, and progress in ourselves, in those
surrounding us, and in the world at large. In
small minds, this feeling expends itself in med-
dling, gossiping, scandal-mongering ; but such are
merely abortive developments of a right noble
quality, which, properly guided, results in benefits
incalculable to the individual and to society. Un-
doubtedly the after-half of life is the best work-
ing-time. Beautiful is youth's enthusiasm, and
grand are its achievements ; but the most solid
and permanent good is done by the persistent
strength and wide experience of middle age. Con-
tentment rarely comes till then ; not mere resig-
nation, a passive acquiescence in what cannot be
328 GROWING OLD.
removed, but active contentment. This is a bless-
ing cheaply bought by a personal share in that
daily account of joy and pain, which the longer
one lives the more one sees is pretty equally bal-
anced in all lives. Young people enjoy " the top
of life " ecstatically, either in prospect or fruition ;
but they are very seldom contented. It is not
possible. Not till the cloudy maze is half travelled
through, and we begin to see the object and pur-
pose of it, can we be really content.
The doubtful question, to marry or not to marry,
is by this time generally settled. A woman's re-
lations with the other sex imperceptibly change
their character, or slowly decline. There are
exceptions ; old lovers who have become friends,
or friends whom no new love could make swerve
from the fealty of years ; still it usually happens
so. The society of honorable, well-informed gen-
tlemen, who meet a lady on the easy neutral
ground of mutual esteem, is undoubtedly pleasant,
but the time has passed when any one of them is
the one necessary to her happiness. If she wishes
to retain influence over mankind, she must do it
by means different from those employed in youth.
Even then, be her wit ever so sparkling, her in-
fluence ever so pure and true, she will often find
her listener preferring bright eyes to intellectual
conversation, and the satisfaction of his heart to
the improvement of his mind. And who can
blame him ? The only way for a woman to pre-
GROWING OLD. 329
serve the unfeigned respect of men, is to let them
see that she can do without either their attention
or their admiration. The waning coquette, the
ancient beauty, as well as the ordinary woman,
who has had her fair share of both love and liking,
must show by her demeanor that she has learned
this.
It is reckoned among the compensations of time
that we suffer less as we grow older ; that pain,
like joy, becomes dulled by repetition, or by the
callousness that comes with years. In one sense
this is true. If there is no joy like the joy of
youth, the rapture of a first love, the thrill of a
first ambition, God's great mercy has also granted
that there is no anguish like youth's pain ; so total,
so hopeless, blotting out earth and heaven, falling
down upon the whole being like a stone. This
never comes in after life ; because the sufferer, if
he or she have lived to any purpose, at all, has
learned that God never meant any human being to
be crushed under any calamity, like a blind worm
under a stone.
For lesser evils, the fact that our interests grad-
ually take a wider range, allows more scope for
the healing power of compensation. Also our
loves, hates, sympathies, and prejudices, having
assumed a more rational and softened shape, do
not present so many angles for the rough attrition
of the world. Likewise, with the eye of faith we
have come to view life in its entireness, instead of
330 GROWING OLD.
puzzling over its disjointed parts, which were never
meant to be made wholly clear to mortal eye.
And that calm twilight, which, by nature's kindly
law, so soon begins to creep over the past, throws
over all things a softened coloring, which tran-
scends and forbids regret.
Another reason why woman has greater capacity
for usefulness in middle life than in any previous
portion of her existence, is her greater indepen-
dence. She will have learned to understand herself,
mentally and bodily ; to be mistress over herself.
Nor is this a small advantage ; for it often takes
years to comprehend, and to act upon when
comprehended, the physical peculiarities of one's
own constitution. Much valetudinarianism among
women arises from ignorance or neglect of the
commonest sanitary laws ; and from indifference
to that grand preservative of a healthy body, a
well-controlled and healthy mind. Both of these
are more attainable in middle age than in youth ;
and therefore the sort of happiness they bring, a
solid, useful, available happiness, is more in her
power then than at any earlier period. And
why ? Because she has ceased to think principally
of herself and her own pleasures ; because hap-
piness has itself become to her an accidental thing,
which the good God may give or withhold, as He
sees most fit for her, and most adapted to the work
for which he means to use her in her generation.
This conviction of being at once an active and a
GROWING OLD. 331
passive agent is surely consecration enough to
form the peace, nay, the happiness, of any good
woman's life ; enough, be it ever so solitary, to
sustain it until the end. In what manner such a
conviction should be carried out, no one individual
can venture to advise. In this age, woman's work
is almost unlimited, when the woman herself so
chooses. She alone can be a law unto herself;
deciding and acting according to the circumstances
in which her lot is placed. And have we not
many who do so act ? There are women of prop-
erty, whose names are a proverb for generous and
wide charities ; whose riches, carefully guided,
flow into innumerable channels, freshening the
whole land. There are women of rank and in-
fluence, who use both, or lay aside both, in the
simplest humility, for labors of love, which level
all classes, or rather raise them all, to one common
sphere of womanhood.
Many others, of whom the world knows nothing,
have taken the wisest course that any unmarried
woman can take ; they have made themselves a
home and a position ; some, as the Ladies Bounti-
ful of a country neighborhood ; some, as elder sis- ;
ters, on whom has fallen the bringing up of whole
families, and to whom has been tacitly accorded
the headship of the same, by the love and respect
of more than one generation thereof. There are
some who, as writers, painters, and professional
women generally, make the most of whatever spe-
332 GROWING OLD.
cial gift is allotted to them ; believing that, whether
it be great or small, it is not theirs, either to lose
or to waste, but that they must one day render up
to the Master his own, with usury.
I will not deny that the approach of old age
has its sad aspect to a woman who has never mar-
ried ; and who, when her own generation dies out,
no longer retains, or can expect to retain, any
flesh-and-blood claim upon a single human being.
When all the downward ties, which give to the
decline of life a rightful comfort, and the interest
in the new generation which brightens it with a
perpetual hope, are to her either unknown, or in-
dulged in chiefly on one side. Of course there
are exceptions, where an aunt has been almost like
a mother, and where a loving and lovable great-
aunt is as important a personage as any grand-
mother. But, generally speaking, a single woman
must make up her mind that the close of her days
will be more or less solitary.
Yet there is a solitude which old age feels to be
as natural and satisfying as that rest which seems
such an irksomeness to youth, but which gradually
grows into the best blessing of our lives ; and
there is another solitude, so full of peace and
hope, that it is like Jacob's sleep in the wilder-
ness, at the foot of the ladder of angels.
The extreme loneliness, which afar off appears
sad, may prove to be but as the quiet, dreamy
hour, " between the lights," when the day's work
GROWING OLD. 333
is done, and we lean back, closing our eyes, to
think it all over before we finally go to rest, or to
look forward, with faith and hope, unto the coming
Morning.
A life in which the best has been made of all
the materials granted to it, and through which the
hand of the Great Designer can be plainly traced,
whether its web be dark or bright, whether its pat-
tern be clear or clouded, is not a life to be pitied ;
for it is a completed life. It has fulfilled
its appointed course, and returns to
the Giver of all breath, pure as
he gave it. Nor will he
forget it when he
counteth up his
jewels.
" Time wears slippers of list, and his tread is
noiseless. The days come softly dawning, one
after another ; they creep in at the windows ;
their fresh morning air is grateful to the lips as
they pant for it ; their music is sweet to the ears
that listen to it ; until, before we know it, a whole
life of days has possession of the citadel, and time
has taken us for its own."
EQUINOCTIAL.
By MRS. A. D. T. WHITNEY..
THE Sun of Life has crossed the line ;
The summer-shine of lengthened light
Faded and failed, — till, where I stand,
'T is equal Day and equal Night.
One after one, as dwindling hours,
Youth's glowing hopes have dropped away,
And soon may barely leave the gleam
That coldly scores a winter's day.
I am not young, I am not old ;
The flush of morn, the sunset calm,
Paling, and deepening, each to each,
Meet midway with a solemn charm.
One side I see the summer fields,
Not yet disrobed of all their green ;
While westerly, along the hills,
Flame the first tints of frosty sheen.
EQUINOCTIAL. 335
Ah, middle-point, where cloud and storm
Make battle-ground of this my life !
Where, even-matched, the Night and Day
Wage round me their September strife !
I bow me to the threatening gale : -
I know when that is overpast,
Among the peaceful harvest-days,
An Indian-summer comes at last.
EPITAPH ON THE UNMATED.
No chosen spot of ground she called her own.
In pilgrim guise o'er earth she wandered on ;
Yet always in her path some flowers were strown.
No dear ones were her own peculiar care,
So was her bounty free as heaven's air ;
For every claim she had enough to spare.
And, loving more her heart to give than lend,
Though oft deceived in many a trusted friend,
She hoped, believed, and trusted to the end.
She had her joys ; — 't was joy to her to love,
To labor in the world with God above,
And tender hearts that ever near did move.
She had her griefs ; — but they left peace behind,
And healing came on every stormy wind,
And still with silver every cloud was lined.
And every loss sublimed some low desire,
And every sorrow taught her to aspire,
Till waiting angels bade her " Go up higher."
E. S.
A BEAUTIFUL THOUGHT.*
LESSING and blessed, this excellent
man passed on to old age ; and how
beautiful that old age was, none, who
had the privilege of knowing it, can
ever forget. It was the old age of the Christian
scholar and the beloved man. His evening of life
could not but be bright and serene, full of hope,
and free from sadness. He had a kindly fresh-
ness of spirit, which made the society of the young
pleasant to him ; and they, on their part, were
always happy to be with him, enjoying the good-
natured wisdom and the modest richness of his
conversation. His faculties remained clear, active,
and healthy to the last. Advancing years never
for a moment closed the capacity, or abated the
willingness, to receive new ideas. Though a lover
of the past and the established, his opinions never
hardened into prejudices. His intellectual vigor
i
* From the Rev. Dr. Francis's Memoir of the Hon. John
Davis.
A BEAUTIFUL THOUGHT. 337
was not seen to moulder under the quiet which an
old man claims as his right. Of him might be said
what Solon said of himself in advanced years, that
" he learned something every day he lived " ; and
to no one could be better applied the remark of
Cicero concerning the venerable Appius : " He
kept his mind bent like a bow, nor was it ever
relaxed by old age."
But it was peculiarly his fine moral qualities —
his benevolence, his artlessness, his genial kind-
ness — which shed a mellow and beautiful light
on his old age. No thought of self ever mingled
its alloy w T ith the virtues that adorned Judge
Davis's character. His reliance on the truths and
promises of Christian faith seemed more confident
and vital as he drew nearer to the great realities
of the future. For him, life had always a holy
meaning. A Grecian philosopher, at the age of
eighty-five, is said to have expressed painful dis-
content at the shortness of life, and complained of
nature's hard allotment, which snatches man away
just as he is about to reach some perfection of
science. Not so our Christian sage ; he found
occasion, not for complaint, but rather for thank-
fulness, because, as the end approached, he saw
more distinctly revealed the better light beyond.
He once expressed, in a manner touchingly
beautiful, his own estimation of old age. On the
occasion of a dinner-party, at which Judge Story
and others eminent in the legal profession ' were
15 v
338 A BEAUTIFUL THOUGHT.
present, the conversation turned upon the compar-
ative advantages of the different periods of life.
Some preferred, for enjoyment, youth and man-
hood ; others ascribed more solid satisfactions to
old age. When the opinion of Judge Davis was
asked, he said, with his usual calm simplicity of
manner : " In the warm season of the year it is
my delight to be in the country ; and every pleas-
ant evening while I am there, I love to sit at
the window and look at some beautiful trees
which grow near my house. The murmuring
of the wind through the branches, the gentle
play of the leaves, and the flickering of light
upon them when the moon is up, fill me with an
indescribable pleasure. As the autumn comes
on, I feel very sad to see these leaves falling one
by one ; but when they are all gone, I find
that they were only a screen before my
eyes ; for I experience a new
and higher satisfaction as J.
gaze through the naked
branches at the glo-
rious stars of
heaven be-
yond."
AT ANCHOR.*
AH, many a year ago, dear wife,
We floated down this river,
Where the hoar willows on its brink
Alternate wave and shiver ;
With careless glance we viewed askance
The kingfisher at quest,
And scarce would heed the reed-wren near,
Who sang beside her nest ;
Nor dreamed that e'er our boat would be
Thus anchored and at rest,
Dear love,
Thus anchored, and at rest !
O, many a time the wren has built
Where those green shadows quiver,
And many a time the hawthorn shed
Its blossoms on the river,
Since that sweet noon of sultry June,
When I my love confessed,
While with the tide our boat did glide
Adown the stream's smooth breast,
* Author unknown.
340 AT ANCHOR.
Whereon our little shallop lies *
Now anchored, and at rest,
Dear love,
Now anchored, and at rest !
The waters still to ocean run,
Their tribute to deliver,
And still the hawthorns bud and bloom
Above the dusky river.
Still sings the wren, — the water-hen
Still skims the ripple's crest ;
The sun — as bright as on that night —
Sinks slowly down the west ;
But now our tiny craft is moored,
Safe anchored and at rest,
Dear love,
Safe anchored, and at rest !
For this sweet calm of after-days
We thank the bounteous Giver,
Who bids our life flow smoothly on
As this delicious river.
A world — our own — has round us grown,
Wherein we twain are blest ;
Our child's first words than songs of birds
More music have expressed ;
And all our centred happiness
Is anchored, and at rest,
Dear love,
Is anchored, and at rest !
NOVEMBER.
By REV. HENRY WARD BEECHER.
E often hear people say, " O, the
dreary days of November ! " The
days of November are never dreary,
though men sometimes are. There
are things in November that make us sad. There
are suggestions in it that lead us to serious
thoughts. At that season of the year, we are apt
to feel that life is passing away. After the days in
summer begin to grow short, I cannot help sighing
often ; and, as they still grow shorter and shorter,
I look upon things, not with pain, but with a
melancholy eye. And when autumn comes, and
the leaves of the trees drop down through the air
and find their resting-places, I cannot help think-
ing, that life is short, that our work is almost ended.
It makes me sad ; but there is a sadness that is
wholesome, and even pleasurable. There are sor-
rows that are not painful, but are of the nature of
some acids, and give piquancy and flavor to life.
342 NOVEMBER.
Such is the sorrow which November brings. That
month, which sees the year disrobed, is not a
dreary month. I like to see the trees go to bed,
as much as I like to see little children go to their
sleep ; and I think there is nothing prettier in this
world than to see a mother disrobe her child and
prepare its couch, and sing and talk to it, and
finally lay it to rest. I like to see the birds get
ready for their repose at night. Did you ever sit
at twilight and hear the birds talk of their domestic
matters, — apparently going over with each other
the troubles and joys of the day ? There is an
immense deal to be learned from birds, if a person
has an ear to hear. Even so I like to see the year
prepare for its sleep. I like to see the trees with
their clothes taken off. I like to see the lines of a
tree ; to see its anatomy. I like to see the prep-
aration God makes for winter. How everything
is snugged and packed ! How all nature gets
ready for the cold season ! How the leaves heap
themselves upon the roots to protect them from
the frosts ! How all things tender are taken
out of the way, and only things tough are left to
stand the buffetings of winter ! And how do
hardy vines and roots bravely sport their bannered
leaves, which the frost cannot kill, holding them
up clear into the coldest days ! November is a
dreary month to some, but to me it is only sad ;
and it is a sweet sadness that it brings to my
mind.
MEDITATIONS ON A BIRTHDAY
EVE.
By REV. JOHN PIERPONT.
DAY, with its labors, has withdrawn.
The stars look down from heaven,
And whisper, " Of thy life are gone
Full seventy years and seven ! "
"While those bright worlds, by angels trod,
Thus whispering round me roll,
Let me commune with thee, my God !
Commune with thee, my soul !
Thou, Father, canst not change thy place,
Nor change thy time to be."
What are the boundless fields of space,
Or what are years to Thee ?
But unto me, revolving years
Bring change, bring feebler breath ;
Bring age, — and, though they bring no fears,
Bring slower steps, pain, death.
344 MEDITATIONS ON A BIRTHDAY EVE.
This earthly house thy wisdom plann'd,
And leased me for a term,
The house I live in, seems to stand
On its foundation firm.
I hardly see that it is old ;
But younger eyes find proof
Of its long standing, who behold
The gray moss on its roof.
Spirit ! thou knowest this house, erelong,
To kindred dust must fall.
Hast thou, while in it, grown more strong,
More ready for the call
To meet thy Judge, amid " the cloud
Of witnesses," who 've run
Their heavenward race, and joined the crowd,
Who wreaths and crowns have won ?
Hast thou, in search of Truth, been true ?
True to thyself and her ?
And been, with many or with few,
Her honest worshipper ?
E'en truths, wherein the Past hath stood,
Wouldst thou inherit blind ?
They 're good ; but there 's a better good, —
The power more truths to find.
And hast thou occupied that power,
And made one talent five ?
If so, then peaceful be this hour !
Thou 'st saved thy soul alive.
MEDITATIONS ON A BIRTHDAY EVE. 345
Hast thou e'er given the world a page,
A line that thou wouldst blot,
As adverse to an upward age ?
God knoweth thou hast not !
Giver of life and all my powers,
To thee my soul I lift !
And in these lone and thoughtful hours,
I thank thee for the gift.
Day, with its toil and care withdrawn,
Night's shadows o'er me thrown,
Another of my years is gone,
And here I sit alone.
No, not alone ! for with me sit
My judges, — God and I ;
And the large record we have writ,
Is lying open by.
And as I hope, erelong, to swell
The song of seraphim,
And as that song the truth will tell,
My judgment is with Him.
Spirit ! thy race is nearly run.
Say, hast thou run it well ?
Thy work on earth is almost done ;
How done, no man can tell.
Spirit, toil on ! thy house, that stands
Seventy years old and seven,
Will fall ; but one, " not made with hands,"
Awaiteth thee in heaven.
15*
THE GRANDMOTHER OF SLAVES.
BY HER GRANDDAUGHTER.
HAD a great treasure in my maternal
grandmother, who was a remarkable
woman in many respects. She was
the daughter of a planter in South Car-
olina, who, at his death, left her and her mother
free, with money to go to St. Augustine, where
they had relatives. It was during the Revolution-
ary War, and they were captured on their passage,
carried back, and sold to different purchasers.
Such was the story my grandmother used to tell
me. She was sold to the keeper of a large hotel,
and I have often heard her tell how hard she fared
during childhood. But as she grew older, she
evinced so much intelligence, and was so faithful,
that her master and mistress could not help seeing
it was for their interest to take care of such a
valuable piece of property. She became an indis-
pensable person in the household, officiating in all
capacities, from cook and wet-nurse to seamstress.
THE GRANDMOTHER OF SLAVES. 347
She was much praised for her cooking ; and her
nice crackers became so famous in the neighbor-
hood that many people were desirous of obtaining
them. In consequence of numerous requests of
this kind, she asked permission of her mistress, to
bake* crackers at night, after all the household
work was done ; and she obtained leave to do it,
provided she would clothe herself and the children
from the profits. Upon these terms, after working
hard all day for her mistress, she began her mid-
night bakings, assisted by her two oldest children.
The business proved profitable ; and each year she
laid by a little, to create a fund for the purchase
of her children. Her master died, and his prop-
erty was divided among the heirs. My grand-
mother remained in the service of his widow, as
a slave. Her children were divided among her
master's children ; but, as she had five, Benjamin,
the youngest, was sold, in order that the heirs
might have an equal portion of dollars and cents.
There was so little difference in our ages, that he
always seemed to me more like a brother than an
uncle. He was a bright, handsome lad, nearly
white ; for he inherited the complexion my grand-
mother had derived from Anglo-Saxon ancestors.
His sale was a terrible blow to his mother ; but
she was naturally hopeful, and she went to work
with redoubled energy, trusting in time to be able
to purchase her children. One day, her mistress
begged the loan of three hundred dollars from the
348 THE GRANDMOTHER OF SLAVES.
little fond she had laid up from the proceeds of
her baking. She promised to pay her soon ; »but
as no promise, or writing, given to a slave is legally
binding, she was obliged to trust solely to her
honor.
In my master's house very little attention was
paid to the slaves' meals. If they could catch a
bit of food while it was going, well and good.
But I gave myself no trouble on that score ; for
on my various errands I passed my grandmother's
house, and she always had something to spare for
me. I was frequently threatened with punishment
if I stopped there ; and my grandmother, to avoid
detaining me, often stood at the gate with some-
thing for my breakfast or dinner. I was indebted
to her for all my comforts, spiritual or temporal.
It was her labor that supplied my scanty ward-
robe. I have a vivid recollection of the linsey-
woolsey dress given me every winter by Mrs.
Flint. How I hated it ! It was one of the badges
of slavery. While my grandmother was thus
helping to support me from her hard earnings, the
three hundred dollars she lent her mistress was
never repaid. When her mistress died, my master,
who was her son-in-law, was appointed executor.
When grandmother applied to him for payment,
he said the estate was insolvent, and the law pro-
hibited payment. It did not, however, prohibit
him from retaining the silver candelabra, which
had been purchased with that money. I presume
THE GRANDMOTHER OF SLAVES. 349
they will be handed down in the family, from
generation to generation.
My grandmother's mistress had always promised
that, at her death, she should be free ; and it was
said that in her will she made good the promise.
But when the estate was settled, Dr. Flint told
the faithful old servant that, under existing cir-
cumstances, it was necessary she should be sold.
On the appointed day, the customary advertise-
ment was posted up, proclaiming that there would
be " a public sale of negroes, horses, &c." Dr.
Flint called to tell my grandmother that he was
unwilling to wound her feelings by putting her up
at auction, and that he would prefer to dispose of
her at private sale. She saw through his hypocrisy,
and understood very well that he was ashamed of
the job. She was a very spirited woman, and if he
was base enough to sell her, after her mistress had
made her free by her will, she was determined
the public should know it. She had, for a long
time, supplied many families with crackers and
preserves ; consequently u Aunt Marthy," as she
was called, was generally known ; and all who
knew her respected her intelligence and good
character. It was also well known that her mis-
press had intended to leave her free, as a reward
'for her long and faithful services. When the day
of sale came, she took her place among the chat-
tels, and at the first call she sprang upon the auc-
tion-block. She was then fifty years old. Many
350 THE GRANDMOTHER OF SLAVES.
voices called out, " Shame ! Shame ! Who 's going
to sell you, Aunt Marthy ? Don't stand there !
That 's no plaoe for you I ' She made no answer,
but quietly awaited her fate. No one bid for her.
At last, a feeble voice said, " Fifty dollars." It
came from a maiden lady, seventy years old, the
sister of my grandmother's deceased mistress. She
had lived forty years under the same roof with my
grandmother ; she knew how faithfully she had
served her owners, and how cruelly she had been
defrauded of her rights, and she resolved to pro-
tect her. The auctioneer waited for a higher bid ;
but her wishes were respected ; no one bid above
her. The old lady could neither read nor write ;
and when the bill of sale was made out, she signed
it with a cross. But of what consequence was that,
when she had a big heart overflowing with human
kindness ? She gave the faithful old servant her
freedom.
My grandmother had always been a mother to
her orphan grandchildren, as far as that was possi-
ble in a condition of slavery. Her perseverance
and unwearied industry continued unabated after
her time was her own, and she soon became mis-
tress of a snug little home, and surrounded herself
with the necessaries of life. She would have been
happy, if her family could have shared them with
her. There remained to her but three children and
two grandchildren ; and they were all slaves. Most
earnestly did she strive to make us feel that it was
THE GRANDMOTHER OF SLAVES. 351
the will of God ; that He had seen fit to place us
under such circumstances ; and, though it seemed
hard, we ought to pray for contentment. It was
a beautiful faith, coming from a mother who could
not call her children her own. But I, and Benja-
min, her youngest boy, condemned it. It appeared
to us that it was much more according to the will
of God that we should be free, and able to make a
home for ourselves, as she had done. There we
always found balsam for our troubles. She was so
loving, so sympathizing ! She always met us with
a smile, and listened with patience to all our sor-
rows. She spoke so hopefully, that unconsciously
the clouds gave place to sunshine. There was a
grand big oven there, too, that baked bread and
nice things for the town ; and we knew there was
always a choice bit in store for us. But even the
charms of that old oven failed to reconcile us to
our hard lot. Benjamin was now a tall, handsome
lad, strongly and gracefully made, and with a spirit
too bold and daring for a slave.
One day, his master attempted to flog him for
not obeying his summons quickly enough. Benja-
min resisted, and in the struggle threw his master
down. To raise his hand against a white man was
a great crime according to the laws of the State,
and to avoid a cruel public whipping, Benjamin
hid himself and made his escape. My grand-
mother was absent visiting an old friend in the
country, when this happened. When she returned,
352 THE GRANDMOTHER OF SLAVES.
and found her youngest child had fled, great was
her sorrow. But, with characteristic piety, she
said, " God's will he done." Every morning she
inquired whether any news had been heard from
her boy. Alas, news did come ; sad news. The
master received a letter, and was rejoicing over the
capture of his human chattel.
That day seems to me but as yesterday, so well
do I remember it. I saw him led through the
streets in chains to jail. His face was ghastly
pale, but full of determination. He had sent some
one to his mother's house, to ask her not to come
to meet him. He said the sight of her distress
would take from him all self-control. Her heart
yearned to see him, and she went; but she
screened herself in the crowd, that it might be
as her child had said.
We were not allowed to visit him. But we
had known the jailer for years, and he was a kind-
hearted man. At midnight he opened the door
for my grandmother and myself to enter, in dis-
guise. When we entered the cell, not a sound
broke the stillness. " Benjamin," whispered my
grandmother. No answer. " Benjamin ! " said
she, again, in a faltering tone. There was a jin-
gling of chains. The moon had just risen, and cast
an uncertain light through the bars. We knelt
down and took Benjamin's cold hands in ours.
Sobs alone were heard, while she wept upon his
neck. At last Benjamin's lips were unsealed.
THE GRANDMOTHER OF SLAVES. 353
Mother and son talked together. He asked her
pardon for the suffering he had caused her. She
told him she had nothing to forgive ; that she
could not blame him for wanting to be free. He
told her that he broke away from his captors, and
was about to throw himself into the river, but
thoughts of her came over him and arrested the
movement. She asked him if he did not also
think of God. He replied, " No, mother, I did
not. When a man is hunted like a wild beast,
he forgets that there is a God."
The pious mother shuddered, as she said,
" Don't talk so, Benjamin. Try to be humble,
and put your trust in God."
" I wish I had some of your goodness," he re-
plied. " You bear everything patiently, just as
though you thought it was all right. I wish I
could."
She told him it had not always been so with
her ; that once she was like him ; but when sore
troubles came upon her, and she had no arm to
lean upon, she learned to call on God, and he
lightened her burdens. She besought him to do
so likewise.
The jailer came to tell us we had overstayed our
time, and we were obliged to hurry away. Grand-
mother went to the master and tried to intercede
for her son. But he was inexorable. He said
Benjamin should be made an example of. That
he should be kept in jail till he was sold. For
w
354 THE GRANDMOTHER OF SLAVES.
three months he remained within the walls of the
prison, during which time grandmother secretly
conveyed him changes of clothes, and as often as
possible carried him something warm for supper,
accompanied with some little luxury for her friend
the jailer. He was finally sold to a slave-trader
from New Orleans. When they fastened irons
upon his wrists to drive him off with the coffle,
it was heart-rending to hear the groans of that
poor mother, as she clung to the Benjamin of her
family, — her youngest, her pet. He was pale
and thin now from hardships and long confine-
ment, but still his good looks were so observable,
that the slave-trader remarked he would give any
price for the handsome lad, if he were a girl.
We, who knew so well what slavery was, were
thankful that he was not.
Grandmother stifled her grief, and with strong
arms and unwavering faith set to work to pur-
chase freedom for Benjamin. She knew the slave-
trader would charge three times as much as he
gave for him ; but she was not discouraged. She
employed a lawyer to write to New Orleans, and
try to negotiate the business for her. But word
came that Benjamin was missing ; he had run away
again.
Philip, my grandmother's only remaining son,
inherited his mother's intelligence. His mistress
sometimes trusted him to go with a cargo to
New York. One of these occasions occurred not
THE GRANDMOTHER OF SLAVES. 355
long after Benjamin's second escape. Through
God's good providence the brothers met in the
streets of New York. It was a happy meeting,
though Benjamin was very pale and thin ; for, on
his way from bondage, he had been taken violently
ill, and brought nigh unto death. Eagerly he
embraced his brother, exclaiming, " Phil ! here
I am at last ! I came nigh dying when I was
almost in sight of freedom ; and O how I prayed
that I might live just to get one breath of free
air ! And here I am. In the old jail I used to
wish I was dead. But life is worth something
now, and it would be hard to die." He begged
his brother not to go back to the South, but to
stay and work with him till they earned enough
to buy their relatives.
Philip replied : "It would kill mother if I de-
serted her. She has pledged her house, and is
working harder than ever to buy you. Will you
be bought ? "
" Never ! ' replied Benjamin, in his resolute
tone. " When I have got so far out of their
clutches, do you suppose, Phil, that I would
ever let them be paid one red cent ? Do you
think I would consent to have mother turned out
of her hard-earned home in her old age ? And
she never to see me after she had bought me ?
For you know, Phil, she would never leave the
South while any of her children or grandchildren
remained in slavery. What a good mother ! Tell
356 THE GRANDMOTHER OF SLAVES.
her to buy you, Phil. You have always been a
comfort to her ; and I have always been making
her trouble."
Philip furnished his brother with some clothes,
and gave him what money he had. Benjamin
pressed his hand, and said, with moistened eyes,
" I part from all my kindred." And so it proved.
We never heard from him afterwards.
When Uncle Philip came home, the first words
he said, on entering the house, were : " O,
mother, Ben is free ! I have seen him in New
York." For a moment, she seemed bewildered.
He laid his hand gently on her shoulder, and re-
peated what he had said. She raised her hands
devoutly, and exclaimed, " God be praised ! Let
us thank Him." She dropped on her knees, and
poured forth her heart in prayer. When she
grew calmer, she begged Philip to sit down and
repeat every word her son had said. He told her
all, except that Benjamin had nearly died on the
way, and was looking very pale and thin.
Still the brave old woman toiled on to accom-
plish the rescue of her remaining children. After
a while, she succeeded in buying Philip, for whom
she paid eight hundred dollars, and came home
with the precious document that secured his free-
dom. The happy mother and son sat by her
hearth-stone that night, telling how proud they
were of each other, and how they would prove to
the world that they could take care of themselves,
THE GRANDMOTHER OF SLAVES. 357
as they had long taken care of others. We all
concluded by saying, " He that is willing to be a
slave, let him be a slave."
My grandmother had still one daughter remain-
ing in slavery. She belonged to the same master
that I did ; and a hard time she had of it. She
was a good soul, this old Aunt Nancy. She did
all she could to supply the place of my lost mother
to us orphans. She was the factotum in our
master's household. She was housekeeper, wait-
ing-maid, and everything else ; nothing went on
well without her, by day or by night. She wore
herself out in their service. Grandmother toiled
on, hoping to purchase release for her. But one
evening word was brought that she had been sud-
denly attacked with paralysis, and grandmother
hastened to her bedside. Mother and daughter had
always been devotedly attached to each other ; and
now they looked lovingly and earnestly into each
other's eyes, longing to speak of secrets that weighed
on the hearts of both. She lived but two days, and
on the last day she was speechless. It was sad to
witness the grief of her bereaved mother. She
had always been strong to bear, and religious
faith still supported her ; but her dark life had
become still darker, and age and trouble were
leaving deep traces on her withered face. The
poor old back was fitted to its burden. It bent
under it, but did not break.
Uncle Philip asked permission to bury his
358 THE GRANDMOTHER OF SLAVES.
sister at his own expense ; and slaveholders are
always ready to grant such favors to slaves and
their relatives. The arrangements were very
plain, but perfectly respectable. It was talked of
by the slaves as a mighty grand funeral. If
Northern travellers had been passing through the
place, perhaps they would have described it as a
beautiful tribute to the humble dead, a touching
proof of the attachment between slaveholders and
their slaves ; and very likely the mistress would
have confirmed this impression, with her handker-
chief at her eyes. We could have told them how
the poor old mother had toiled, year after year, to
buy her son Philip's right to his own earnings ;
and how that same Philip had paid the expenses
of the funeral, which they regarded as doing so
much credit to the master.
There were some redeeming features in our
hard destiny. Very pleasant are my recollections
of the good old lady who paid fifty dollars for the
purpose of making my grandmother free, when
she stood on the auction-block. She loved this
old lady, whom we all called Miss Fanny. She
often took tea at grandmother's house. On such
occasions, the table was spread with a snow-white
cloth, and the china cups and silver spoons were
taken from the old-fashioned buffet. There were
hot muffins, tea-rusks, and delicious sweetmeats.
My grandmother always had a supply of such arti-
cles, because she furnished the ladies of the town
THE GRANDMOTHER OF SLAVES. 359
with such things for their parties. She kept two
cows for that purpose, and the fresh cream was
Miss Fanny's delight. She invariably repeated
that it was the very best in town. The old ladies
had cosey times together. They would work and
chat, and sometimes, while talking over old times,
their spectacles would get dim with tears, and
would have to be taken off and wiped. When
Miss Fanny bade us " Good by," her bag was
always filled with grandmother's best cakes, and
she was urged to come again soon.
[Here follows a long account of persecutions
endured by the granddaughter, who tells this
story. She finally made her escape, after encoun-
tering great dangers and hardships. The faithful
old grandmother concealed her for a long time at
great risk to them both, during which time she
tried in vain to buy free papers for her. At last
there came a chance to escape in a vessel North-
ward bound. She goes on to say : — ]
All arrangements were made for me to go on
board at dusk. Grandmother came to me with a
small bag of money, which she wanted me to take.
I begged her to keep at least part of it ; but she
insisted, while her tears fell fast, that I should take
the whole. " You may be sick among strangers,"
said she ; " and they would send you to the
poor-house to die." Ah, that good grandmother !
Though I had the blessed prospect of freedom
before me, I felt dreadfully sad at leaving forever
360 THE GRANDMOTHER OF SLAVES.
that old homestead, that had received and sheltered
me in so many sorrows. Grandmother took me by
the hand, and said, " My child, let us pray." We
knelt down together, with my arm clasped round
the faithful, loving old friend I was about to leave
forever. On no other occasion has it been my lot
to listen to so fervent a supplication for mercy and
protection. It thrilled through my heart and in-
spired me with trust in God. I staggered into the
street, faint in body, though strong of purpose. I
did not look back upon the dear old place, though
I felt that I should never see it again.
[The granddaughter found friends at the North,
and, being uncommonly quick in her perceptions,
she soon did much to supply the deficiencies of
early education. While leading a worthy, indus-
trious life in New York, she twice very narrowly
escaped becoming a victim to the infamous Fugi-
tive Slave Law. A noble-hearted lady purchased
her freedom, and thereby rescued her from further
danger. She thus closes the story of her venerable
ancestor : — ]
My grandmother lived to rejoice in the knowl-
edge of my freedom ; but not long afterward a let
ter came to me with a black seal. It was from a
friend at the South, who informed me that she had
gone " where the wicked cease from troubling, and
where the weary are at rest." Among the gloomy
recollections of my life in bondage come tender
memories of that good grandmother, like a few
THE GRANDMOTHER OF SLAVES. 361
fleecy clouds floating over a dark and troubled
sea* TT T
xi, J.
Note. — The above account is no fiction. The'
author, who was thirty years in slavery, wrote it
in an interesting book entitled " Linda." She is
an esteemed friend of mine ; and I introduce this
portion of her. story here to illustrate the power
of character over circumstances. She has intense
sympathy for those who are still suffering in the
bondage from which she escaped. She is now
devoting all her energies to the poor refugees in
our camps, comforting the afflicted, nursing the
sick, and teaching the children. On the 1st of
January, 1863, she wrote me a letter, which began
as follows : " I have lived to hear the Proclama-
tion of Freedom for my suffering people. All my
wrongs are forgiven. I am more than repaid for
all I have endured. Glory to God in the highest! ''
L. M. C.
We hear men often enough speak of seeing God
in the stars and the flowers, but they will never be
truly religious, till they learn to behold Him in
each other also, where He is most easily, yet most
rarely discovered.
J. R. Lowell.
16
AULD LANG SYNE.
By ROBERT BURNS.
SHOULD auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to min' ?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And days o' lang syne ?
CHORUS.
For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne ;
We '11 tak' a cup o' kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.
We twa hae ran about the braes,
And pu'd the gowans * fine ;
But we 've wandered mony a weary foot,
Sin' auld lang syne.
We twa hae paidl't i' the burn,f
Frae morning sun till dine ;
* "Wild daisies.
t Brook.
AULD LANG SYNE. 363
But seas between us braid hae roared
Sin' auld lang syne.
CHORUS.
For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne ;
We '11 tak' a cup o' kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.
OLD FOLKS AT HOME.
They love the places where they wandered
When they were young ;
They love the books they 've often pondered,
They love the tunes they 've sung.
The easy-chair, so soft and dozy,
Is their delight ;
The ample slippers, warm and cozy,
And the dear old bed at night.
CHORUS.
Near their hearth-stones, warm and cheery,
Where, by night or day,
They 're free to rest when they are weary,
There the old folks love to stay.
L. M. C.
OLD UNCLE TOMMY.
FROM THE CHRISTIAN REGISTER.
" Let him, where and when he will, sit down
Beneath the trees, or by the grassy bank
Of highway-side, and with the little birds
Share his chance-gathered meal ; and finally,
As in the eye of Nature he has lived,
So in the eye of Nature let him die."
Wordsworth.
Hj) HE morning after the storm was calm
and beautiful ; just one of those days
so dear to every lover of Nature ;
i for every true worshipper of our all-
bountiful Mother is a poet at heart, though his
lips may often fail to utter the rich experience of
his soul. The air was full of fragrance and the
songs of birds. Here and there a gentle breeze
would shower down the drops of moisture from
the trees, forming a mimic rain ; every bush and
shrub, and each separate blade of grass, glittered
in the morning sunlight, as if hung with brightest
jewels. The stillness was in harmony with the
OLD UNCLE TOMMY. 365
day of rest, and only the most peaceful thoughts
were suggested by this glorious calm, returning
after the tempest.
The late proprietor of the Leigh Manor had pre-
sented a small, though very perfect, chime of bells
to Leighton Church ; they had never been success-
fully played until now, when the ringers, having
become more skilful, they for the first time pealed
a regular chant ; and right merrily did the sound
go forth over the quiet plain.
To God the mighty Lord,
Your joyful songs repeat ;
To Him your praise accord,
As good as He is great.
" Ah," said an old man, leaning on his staff,
and gazing at the bells, " how I wish the Masther
could a' heard ye ! Well, p'r'aps he does hear the
bonny bells a-praising God. God bless thee, dear
Masther, and have thee forever in his holy keep-
ing ! " and raising his hat reverently from his head,
the old man stood with the white hair streaming
back upon his shoulders, leaving unshaded his up-
turned countenance, where were visible the traces
of many a conflict and of many a hard-earned vic-
tory ; the traces only, for time and living faith had
smoothed the deeper marks. As in Nature this
morning you saw there had been storm and fierce
strife ; but now all was at peace. The clear blue
eye of the aged man shone with a brighter light
than youth alone can give. It was the undying
366 OLD UNCLE TOMMY.
light of immortality ; for, old and poor and igno-
rant as he was, to worldly eyes, his soul had at-
tained a noble stature ; and as he stood there with
uncovered head, in the June sunshine, there was a
majesty about him which no mere earthly rank
can impart. You saw before you a child of the
Great Father ; you felt that he communed in spirit
with his God, as with a dear and loving parent ;
that the Most High was very nigh unto him. And
yet this man dwelt amongst the paupers of a coun-
try almshouse, and men called him insane ! But
he was " harmless," they said ; so he was allowed
to come and go about the neighborhood, as he
pleased, and no one feared him.
The little children, as they passed to Sunday
School this morning, stepped more lightly, lest
they should disturb him ; for he was a favorite
with the " little people," as he called them.
When beyond his hearing, they whispered to
one another, " I don't believe Uncle Tommy is
crazy, do you ? I never want to plague him ; he 's
so kind."
" He is n't a mite like laughing Davy," said
another ; " for Daw is real mischievous some-
times, and Uncle Tommy is n't a bit ; what do
you s'pose folks call him crazy for ? "
"I'm sure I don't know," whispered a third,
'■ for he knows ever so much. I guess it 's 'cause
he seems as he does now ; and nobody else ever
does, do they ? That 's what folks laugh at."
OLD UNCLE TOMMY. 367
" Well, it 's too bad," exclaimed a rosy little
girl of nine.or ten summers. " I mean to go speak
to him. That '11 wake him up. He 's always so
good to us, I Tiate to have folks look queer at him,
and make fun of his ways."
" Why, Nelly, he don't care for the laughing."
" No matter ; I do," stoutly maintained the
child ; and going up to the old man, she softly
pulled his clean, patched sleeve, and said, " Uncle
Tommy, if you please, do look here ! "
He did not seem to hear her for a little while ;
then passing his hand across his forehead, as if
rousing himself, he turned, with a pleasant, cheer-
ing manner, to the children, who had gathered
around him : " Ah ! little Nelly, is it you ? and
all my little people ? why you 're out early this
good morning. May the blessing of Our Father
shine through your young hearts, making beautiful
your lives, as the sunshine makes beautiful your
fresh young faces !"
" Uncle Tommy," said John Anton, " what
makes you love the sun so like everything ? "
Old Tommy smiled at the boy's eagerness ; but
looking upward, he answered : "I love it as the
first, brightest gift of Our Father. I see in it the
purest emblem of Him whose dwelling is the light."
After a moment's silence, he extended his hands
over the children's heads, saying fervently, " Pour
thy light into their souls, O Father, that, the eyes
of the mind being opened, they may see Thee in
368 OLD UNCLE TOMMY.
all thy works ! " Then taking Nelly by the
hand, he asked, if they were not too soon for
school.
" Yes," answered she ; " for we came to hear
the bells chime. It 's so pleasant, Uncle Tommy,
perhaps you will tell us something. Just a little
while, till the teachers come."
" O yes, do now, Uncle Tommy, tell us some
of the nice stories you know," chimed in the
whole group.
" I '11 be still as a mouse, if you will," coaxed
a lively child, whose ceaseless motion usually dis-
turbed all quiet talk.
Uncle Tommy patted her curly head, and good-
naturedly consented to gratify them, " if they
would try and be good as the flowers in the
meadow yonder."
" Yes, yes, we will," shouted they.
" Now lean on me, and I '11 help you, Uncle
Tommy," said Nelly, who usually assumed the
charge of him when she found an opportunity.
So, with one hand resting upon her shoulder, and
the other supported by his staff, the old man, who
looked older now, as his hat shaded his face, moved
feebly forward, surrounded by the happy children.
They walked a few steps beyond the corner of the
church, and soon came to a projection in one of
the buttresses, that was often used by the people
as a seat in summer ; hither they carefully led
Uncle Tommy, who could still enjoy his beloved
OLD UNCLE TOMMY. 369
sunshine, whilst he rested his weary limbs. It was
a sight worthy of an artist's pencil ; the ancient
stone church, the venerable man, the young chil-
dren, the lofty trees, the birds, the shadows, the
sunlight, and the graves.
" Sha'n't I take off your hat," asked John, " so
you can feel warm ? ' and away went the hat, to
the mutual satisfaction of Uncle Tommy and the
children ; for they loved him, and liked to see his
white hair in the bright sunbeams, — " looking ex-
actly like the ' Mary's threads ' on the dewy grass,
so silvery and shiny," Nelly used to say.
"What are you going to tell us?" urged the
impatient little Janette, softly.
He looked all around before speaking ; up at the
distant blue sky flooded with light ; abroad upon
the fields clothed in richest verdure ; at the gently
rustling elms ; the oaks, the yews, and hemlocks
in the quiet churchyard ; the eager living group
at his feet ; all were seen in that one compre-
hensive glance. " It is my birthday, little people,"
said he, at length, smilingly nodding to them.
" Why Uncle Tommy," cried the astonished
children, in their simplicity, " do you have birth-
days, like us ? We thought you was too old ! "
" Yes, yes," said he, shaking his head, " I 'm
very old, but I remember my birthdays still. It 's
ninety years, this blessed day, since I came here
a wee bit of a baby ; and what a blessed Father
has led me the long weary way ! "
16* ! x
370 OLD UNCLE TOMMY.
" Shall you like to die, Uncle Tommy ? Do
you want to die ? " asked Nelly.
" I want, dear child, to live just as long as our
Father pleases. I don't feel impatient to go nor
to stay ; 'cause that a'n't right, Nelly. I want to
do exactly as God wills ; but I sha'n't feel sorry
to go when the time comes ; all I wish about it
is, that the sun may shine like now when I go
home, and that I may know it."
Another little boy here joined the group. He
was the youngest son of the Rector. He had
only returned home the previous day to pass the
summer vacation, after a six months' absence.
There was a little shyness at first between the
children, which soon disappeared before the kindly
influence of the old man, in whose eyes all human
beings were recognized as the children of God.
With him there were no rich and no poor.
" Welcome home again, little Herman ! " was
his greeting, accompanied by a smile so genial,
it went straight to the boy's heart.
" Thank you, Uncle Tommy," said he, shaking
hands, cordially. "'I am right glad to be here, I
can assure you ; and very glad to see you in your
old corner, looking so well. But what were you
saying about 'going home,' when I interrupted
you by coming up ? Pray go on."
Before he could answer, Janette said, " It 's
Uncle Tommy's birthday, this is ! "
" Indeed ! and how old is he ? " asked Herman,
looking at the old man for a reply.
OLD UNCLE TOMMY. 371
" Ninety years, thank God," was the cheerful
answer.
" O what a long, long time to live ! " slowly fell
from Herman's lips. He was a delicate boy, and
thoughtful beyond his years, as is often the case
with invalid children ; and now he rested his
pale, intelligent face upon his hand, with his eyes
fixed on Uncle Tommy, and thought what a long,
long time was ninety years ! Then he looked
upon the graves, and wondered whether any of
those whose bodies were lying there knew what
an old, old man was still seeing the sun shine
so long after they were gone. There were little
graves and large ones ; Uncle Tommy knew al-
most all of them, and still he lived on all alone;
and they had some of them left families. He
wondered on and on ; his reverie was short, but
crowded with perplexing thoughts.
Uncle Tommy put an end to it, by saying, in
answer to Herman's words, " The time is only
long, when I don't mind our Father's will. When
I obey, as the sun, and the wind, and all about us
in Nature does, then I 'm as happy as a cretur can
be ; and time seems just right. But what I was a
saying about going home was this ; I a'n't in a
hurry to go, 'cause I 'm here so long ; nor am I
wanting to stay ; only just as God pleases. But
when the time does come, I '11 be glad to go home,
after my school time here is over. P'r'aps just as
you feel now, Herman ; and I hope when Uncle
372 OLD UNCLE TOMMY.
Tommy has gone, with the sunshine, out there,
you little people will learn to love the fair works
of God our Father, just as lie does now. And
don't forget when you're a going to be unkind or
naughty, that you little ones, and all the little
children, and all the grown people, are the fairest,
noblest of God's works. And if you think of
Uncle Tommy, when you see the sun shine, and
the pretty flowers and birds, and remember how
he loved them, think of him when you are a going
to strike one another, or do any naughty thing,
and remember how often he has told you about
the dear Jesus, who took little children in his arms
and blessed them, and told all the people, great and
small, to love God best, and then to love one
another as they loved themselves. Now if you
try to think of this, I don't believe you '11 be
naughty very often ; and the fewer times you 're
naughty, the happier you '11 be when you look
round on this dear beautiful world."
" But, Uncle Tommy," said Nelly, " we forget
about being good sometimes, when we get cross,
and everybody scolds at us 'cause we are so
naughty ; and that makes us act worse, ever so
much ; don't it, Ann ? " appealing to a girl about
her own age.
" Yes," rejoined Ann, " nobody ever says any-
thing about being good, in the way you do,
Uncle Tommy ; except in Sunday School, and
in Church ; and somehow it don't seem just the
OLD UNCLE TOMMY. 373
same as when you talk. Oh, Uncle Tommy, I
believe we should always be good children, if you
could only be along with us all the time."
" So do I ! " " And I ! " was heard from the
little circle.
" Dear me ! " cried Nelly, impatiently, " how I
do wish we had a great big world, all our own,
with nobody ugly to plague us ; only just for
Uncle Tommy and us to live in. Then we 'd
be good as could be. Don't you wish so, dear
Uncle Tommy ? "
" No, dear children, I wish for no better, or
bigger world to live in, than this. Our Father put
us here, and put it in our own power to be happy ;
that means, to be good ; and if we don't make out
to do what He wants us to do here, I don't believe
we should find it half as easy in a world such as
folks dream about. It 's a wrong notion, to my
thinking, to s'pose we could behave better in some
other place than in the one where our lot 's cast
in life, or at some other time than the present
time going over our heads. Remember this, dear
little people, when you grow up, and don't wish
for anything it is n't God's will you should have.
Try all you can to mind the Lord, who loves you
so well ; and if trouble and sorrow come to you,
as they do to every human cretur, and you can be
sure it 's not your own doing, then patiently trust
in our Father, and remember what the dear bells
say: —
374 OLD UNCLE TOMMY.
* For God doth prove
Our constant friend ;
His boundless love
Will never end.'
You 're little and young, and full of health now,
so you don't know what I mean, as you will
by and by, when you grow older ; but you can
remember, if you can't quite take it in, that I tell
you, after trying it for a good many years, I know
our happiness depends a deal more on ourselves
than on other people ; and it 's only when we 're
lazy, and don't want to stir ourselves, that we
think other people have an easier time than we
do. B'lieve me, dear children, everybody has
the means of being happy or unhappy in their
hearts ; and these they must take wherever they
go ; and these make their home and their world."
The bell for school began to ring, and the chil-
dren sprang to their feet instantly, saying, " Good
by, Uncle Tommy ! It 's school-time now ! "
" Good by, little ones," said he. " You go to one
school, and I '11 go to another, among the dumb
children of our Lord ! "
Nelly and Ann lingered after the others a
moment. " Uncle Tommy," said Ann, " we will
try to do as you want us to, and remember what
you say."
He laid his hands upon their heads, and, looking
up to Heaven, said, " May the Spirit of the dear
Lord be with ye, and guide your tender feet in
/
OLD UNCLE TOMMY. 375
the narrow way of life ! Bless them, Father, with
thy loving presence through their unending life ! "
There was a moment's pause ; then Ann said
earnestly, " I love dearly to have you bless me,
Uncle Tommy " ; and with a " Good by," off
she ran to school.
Nelly stopped a moment. She had nestled close
to the old man's side without speaking, and now,
throwing her arms around his neck with a real
overflowing of her young heart, she kissed his
cheek, and then darted off to join her companions
in school. Uncle Tommy was surprised, for Nelly
did not often express her affection by caresses, as
most children do, but by kind deeds.
The action, slight though it was, touched a
long silent chord in the old man's memory. The
curtain veiling the past seemed withdrawn, and
again he was a child. There was the path from
the village across the church-yard, just as it was
when first his mother had led him to church, a
tiny thing clinging to her skirts. He was the
youngest of seven, and the pet ; O so long ago !
He saw again before him his young brothers and
sisters, full of healthful glee ; then other forms
of long-parted ones joined the procession of years ;
his sisters' and brothers' children ; his own cher-
ished wife and much-loved boys and girls : all
gone, long, long years ago ; and he alone, of all
that numerous company, remained. " Thou, Fa-
ther, hast ever been on my right hand and on
376 OLD UNCLE TOMMY.
my left ; very safely hast thou led me on through
joy and sorrow unto this shining day ; blessed be
thy holy name ! "
So prayed the old man his last earthly thanks-
giving. When the people were dispersing to
their homes after service, one, seeing him sitting
there in the sheltered nook, came to say " Good
morning " ; and receiving no answer, he touched
his hand. It was cold. There he sat in the
glorious sunshine, his old brown hat by his side,
wreathed with fresh grass and flowers, as was
his custom ; but the freed spirit had gone to the
Father he so lovingly worshipped.
They made his grave in the sunniest part of
the church-yard, where an opening in the trees
afforded a lovely view of the village and the
meadows, with the gentle flowing river, along
whose peaceful banks the old man had loved to
wander, gathering flowers and leaves and grasses,
and throwing crumbs to the birds, who knew him
too well to fly from him. Here they laid him,
at the last, and, instead of monument or head-
stone, the children brought sweet flowering shrubs,
and wild brier from the lanes or fields, to plant
around his quiet grave.
" Uncle Tommy is not there" said the chil-
dren. " He has gone home. This is only his
poor hody, here in the ground ! " Thus did the
influence of his bright, ever-young spirit remain
with the " little people" long after Uncle Tommy
had ceased to talk with them.
SITTING IN THE SUN.
WHEN Hope deceives, and friends betray,
And kinsmen shun me with a flout ;
When hair grows .white, and eyes grow dim,
And life's slow sand is nigh run out,
I '11 ask no boon of any one,
But sing old songs, and sit i' the sun.
When memory is my only joy,
And all my thoughts shall backward turn ;
When eyes shall cease to glow with love,
And heart with generous fire to burn,
I '11 ask no boon of any one,
But sing old songs, and sit i' the sun.
When sounds grow low to deafening ears,
And suns shine not as once they did ;
When parting is no more a grief,
And I do whatsoe'er they bid,
I '11 ask no boon of any one,
But sing old songs, and sit i' the sun.
378 SITTING IN THE SUN.
Then underneath a spreading elm,
That guards some little cottage door,
I '11 dance a grandchild on my knee,
And count my past days o'er and o'er ;
I '11 ask no boon of any one,
But sing old songs and sit i' the sun.
Anonymous.
How far from here to heaven ?
Not very far, my friend ;
A single hearty step
Will all thy journey end.
Hold there ! where runnest thou ?
Know heaven is in thee !
Seek'st thou for God elsewhere ?
His face thou It never see.
Go out, God will go in ;
Die thou, and let Him live ;
Be not, and He will be ;
Wait, and He '11 all things give.
I don't believe in death.
If hour by hour I die,
'T is hour by hour to gain
A better life thereby.
Angelus Silesius, A. D. 1620.
AUNT KI NDLY.
By THEODORE PARKER.
? ISS KINDLY is aunt to everybody,
and has been, for so long a time,
that none remember to the contrary.
The little children love her ; and she
helped their grandmothers to bridal ornaments
threescore years ago. Nay, this boy's grandfather
found that the way to college lay through her
pocket. Generations not her own rise up and call
her blessed. To this man's father her patient toil
gave the first start in life. When that great for-
tune was a seed, it was she who carried it in her
hand. That wide river of reputation ran out of
the cup which her bounty filled. Now she is old,
very old. The little children, who cling about
her, with open mouth and great round eyes, won-
der that anybody should ever be so old ; or ask
themselves whether Aunt Kindlv ever had a
mother to kiss her mouth. To them she is coeval
with the sun, and, like that, an institution of the
380 AUNT KINDLY.
country. At Christmas, they think she is the
wife of St. Nicholas himself, such an advent is there
of blessings from her hand.
Her hands are thin, her voice is feeble, her back
is bent, and she walks with a staff, which is the
best limb of the three. She wears a cap of an-
tique pattern, yet of her own nice make. She has
great round spectacles, and holds her book away
off the other side of the candle when she reads.
For more than sixty years she has been a special
providence to the family. How she used to go
forth, the very charity of God, to heal and soothe
and bless ! How industrious are her hands ! How
thoughtful and witty that fertile mind ! Her heart
has gathered power to love in all the eighty-six
years of her toilsome life. When the birth-angel
came to a related house, she was there to be the
mother's mother ; ay, mother also to the new-
born baby's soul. And when the wings of death
flapped in the street and shook a neighbor's door,
she smoothed the pillow for the fainting head ; she
soothed and cheered the spirit of the waiting man,
opening the curtains of heaven, that he might look
through and see the welcoming face of the dear
Infinite Mother ; nay, she put the wings of her
own strong, experienced piety under him, and
sought to bear him up.
Now, these things are passed by. No, they are
not passed by ; for they are in the memory of the
dear God, and every good deed she has done is
AUNT KINDLY. 381
treasured in her own heart. The bulb shuts up
the summer in its breast, which in winter will
come out a fragrant hyacinth. Stratum after
stratum, her good works are laid up, imperishable,
in the geology of her character.
It is near noon, now ; and she is alone. She
has been thoughtful all day, talking inwardly to
herself. The family notice it, but say nothing.
In her chamber, she takes a little casket from her
private drawer ; and from thence a book, gilt-
edged and clasped ; but the clasp is worn, the
gilding is old, the binding faded by long use. Her
hands tremble as she opens it. First she reads
her own name, on the fly-leaf ; only her Christian
name, " Agnes," and the date. Sixty-eight years
ago, this day, that name was written there, in a
clear, youthful, clerkly hand, with a little tremble
in it, as if the heart beat over quick. It is very
well worn, that dear old Bible. It opens of its
own accord, at the fourteenth chapter of St. John.
There is a little folded paper there ; it touches
the first verse and the twenty-seventh. She sees
neither ; she reads both out of her soul. " Let
not your heart be troubled ; ye believe in God,
believe also in me." " Peace I leave with you.
My peace I give unto you. Not as the world
giveth, give I unto you." She opens the paper.
There is a little brown dust in it, the remnant of a
flower. She takes the precious relic in her band,
made cold by emotion. She drops a tear on it,
and the dust is transfigured before her eyes : it is a
382 AUNT KINDLY.
red rose of the spring, not quite half blown, dewy
fresh. She is old no longer. She is not Aunt
Kindly now ; she is sweet Agnes, as the maiden
of eighteen was, eight and sixty years ago, one day
in May, when all nature was woosome and win-
ning, and every flower-bell rung in the marriage
of the year. Her lover had just put that red rose
of the spring into her hand, and the good God put
another on her cheek, not quite half-blown, dewy
fresh. The young man's arm is around her ; her
brown curls fall on his shoulder ; she feels his
breath on her face, his cheek on hers ; their lips
join, and like two morning dew-drops in that rose,
their two loves rush into one.
But the youth must wander away to a far land.
She bids him take her Bible. They will think of
each other as they look at the North Star. He
saw the North Star hang over the turrets of many
a foreign town. His soul went to God ; — there
is as straight a road thither from India as from any
other spot. His Bible came back to her ; the
Divine love in it, without the human lover ; the
leaf turned down at the blessed words of St. John,
first and twenty-seventh verse of the fourteenth
chapter. She put the rose there to mark the spot ;
what marks the thought holds now the symbol of
their youthful love. To-day, her soul is with him ;
her maiden soul with his angel-soul ; and one day
the two, like two dew-drops, will rush into one
immortal wedlock, and the old age of earth shall
become eternal youth in the kingdom of heaven.
CROSSING OVER.
FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND.
MANY a year is in its grave,
Since I crossed this restless wave ;
And the evening, fair as ever,
Shines on ruin, rock, and river.
Then, in this same boat, beside,
Sat two comrades old and tried ;
One with all a father's truth,
One with all the fire of youth.
One on earth in silence wrought,
And his grave in silence sought ;
But the younger, brighter form
Passed in battle and in storm.
So, whene'er I turn my eye
Back upon the days gone by,
Saddening thoughts of friends come o'er me ;
Friends who closed their course before me.
384 CROSSING OVER.
Yet, what binds us, friend to friend,
But that soul with soul can blend ?
Soul-like were those hours of yore —
Let us walk in soul once more !
Take, O boatman, thrice thy fee !
Take ! I give it willingly ;
For, invisibly to thee,
Spirits twain have crossed with me.
They are all gone into a world of light,
And I alone sit lingering here !
Their very memory is fair and bright,
And my sad thoughts doth clear.
Dear, beauteous Death ! the jewel of the just !
Shining nowhere but in the dark !
What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust,
Could man outlook that mark !
He that hath found some fledged bird's nest may know,
At first sight, if the bird be flown ;
But what fair field or grove he sings in now,
That is to him unknown.
And yet, as angels, in some brighter dreams,
Call to the soul when man doth sleep,
So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes,
And into glory peep.
Henry Vaughan.
A LOVE AFFAIR AT CRANFORD.
By MRS. GASKELL.
THOUGHT, after Miss Jenkyns's
death, that probably my connection
with Cranford would cease. I was
pleasantly surprised, therefore, by re-
ceiving a letter from Miss Pole proposing that I
should go and stay with her. In a couple of days
after my acceptance came a note from Miss Matey
Jenkyns, in which, in a rather circuitous and very
humble manner, she told me how much pleasure I
should confer if I could spend a week or two with
her, either before or after I had been at Miss
Pole's; "for," she said, "since my dear sister's
death, I am well aware I have no attractions to
offer : it is only to the kindness of my friends that
I can owe their company."
Of course I promised to go to dear Miss Matey
as soon as I had ended my visit to Miss Pole.
The day after my arrival at Cranford, I went to
17 Y
386 ^ LOVE AFFAIR AT CRANFORD.
see her, much wondering what the house would
be like without Miss Jenkyns, and rather dreading
the changed aspect of things. Miss Matey began
to cry as soon as she saw me. She was evidently
nervous from having anticipated my call. I com-
forted her as well as I could ; and I found the best
consolation I could give was the honest praise that
came from my heart as I spoke of the deceased.
Miss Matey slowly shook her head over each vir-
tue, as it was named and attributed to her sister ;
at last she could not restrain the tears which had
long been silently flowing, but hid her face behind
her handkerchief, and sobbed aloud.
" Dear Miss Matey ! " said I, taking her hand ;
for indeed I did not know in what way to tell her
how sorrv I was for her, left deserted in the world.
She put down her handkerchief and said : " My
dear, I 'd rather you did not call me Matey.
She did not like it. But I did many a thing she
did not like, I 'm afraid ; and now she 's gone ! If
you please, my love, will you call me Matilda ? '
I promised faithfully, and began to practise the
new name with Miss Pole that very day ; and, by
degrees, Miss Matilda's feeling on the subject was
known through Cranford, and the appellation of
Matey was dropped by all, except a very old
woman, who had been nurse in the rector's family,
and had persevered, through many long years, in
calling the Miss Jenkynses " the girls " : she said
" Matey " to the day of her death.
A LOVE AFFAIR AT CRANFORD. 387
• • • • •
It seems that Miss Pole had a cousin, once or
twice removed, who had offered to Miss Matey
long ago. Now, this cousin lived four or five
miles from Cranford, on his own estate ; but his
property was not large enough to entitle him to
rank higher than a yeoman ; or, rather, with some-
thing of the " pride which apes humility,'' he had
refused to push himself on, as so many of his class
had done, into the rank of the squires. He would
not allow himself to be called Thomas Holbrook,
Esq. He even sent back letters with this address,
telling the postmistress at Cranford that his name
was Mr. Thomas Holbrook, yeoman. He rejected
all domestic innovations. He would have the
house door stand open in summer, and shut in
winter, without knocker or bell to summon a ser-
vant. The closed fist, or the knob of the stick,
did this office for him, if he found the door locked.
He despised every refinement which had not its
root deep down in humanity. If people were not
ill, he saw no necessity for moderating his voice.
He spoke the dialect of the country in perfection,
and constantly used it in conversation ; although
Miss Pole (who gave me these particulars) added,
that he read aloud more beautifully, and with more
feeling, than any one she had ever heard, except
the late rector.
" And how came Miss Matilda not to marry
him ? " asked I.
388 A LOVE AFFAIR AT CRANFORD.
" Oh, I don't know. She was willing enough,
I think ; but you know Cousin Thomas would not
have been enough of a gentleman for the rector
and Mrs. and Miss Jenkyns."
" Well, but they were not to marry him," said
I, impatiently.
" No, but they did not like Miss Matey to marry
below her rank. You know she was the rector's
daughter, and somehow they are related to Sir
Peter Arley ; Miss Jenkyns thought a deal of
that."
" Poor Miss Matev ! " said I.
" Nay, now, I don't know anything more than
that he offered and was refused. Miss Matey
might not like him ; and Miss Jenkyns might
never have said a word : it is only a guess of
mine."
" Has she never seen him since ? " I inquired.
" No, I think not. You see Woodley (Cousin
Thomas's house) lies half-way between Cranford
and Misselton ; and I know he made Misselton his'
market-town very soon after he had offered to Miss
Matey ; and I don't think he has been into Cran-
ford above once or twice since. Once, when I
was walking with Miss Matey in High Street, she
suddenly darted from me and went up Shire Lane.
A few minutes after, I was startled by meeting
Cousin Thomas."
" How old is he ? " I asked, after a pause of
castle-building.
A LOVE AFFAIR AT CRANFORD. 389
" He must be about seventy, I tbink, my dear,"
said Miss Pole, blowing up my castle, as if by gun-
powder, into small fragments.
Very soon after, I had the opportunity of seeing
Mr. Holbrook ; seeing, too, his first encounter
with his former love, after thirty or forty years'
separation. I was helping to decide whether any
of the new assortment of colored silks, which thev
had just received at the shop, would help to match
a gray and black mousseline-de-laine that wanted
a new breadth, when a tall, thin, Don Quixote-
looking old man came into the shop for some
woollen gloves. I had never seen the person be-
fore, and I watched him rather attentively, while
Miss Matey listened to the shopman. The stran-
ger was rather striking. He wore a blue coat,
with brass buttons, drab breeches, and gaiters, and
drummed with his fingers on the counter, until he
was attended to. When he answered the shop-
boy's question, " What can I have the pleasure of
showing you to-day, sir ? ' I saw Miss Matilda
start, and then suddenly sit down ; and instantly
I guessed who it was. She had made some in-
quiry which had to be carried round to the other
shop.
" Miss Jenkyns wants the black sarcenet, two-
and-twopence the yard." Mr. Holbrook caught
the name, and was across the shop in two strides.
" Matey, — Miss Matilda, — Miss Jenkyns !
Bless my soul ! I should not have known you.
390 A LOVE AFFAIR AT CRANFORD.
How are you ? how are you ? " He kept shaking
her hand, in a way which proved the warmth of
his friendship ; but he repeated so often, as if to
himself, " I should not have known you ! " that
any sentimental romance I might be inclined to
build was quite done away with by his manner.
However, he kept talking to us all the time we
were in the shop ; and then waving the shopman,
with the unpurchased gloves, on one side, with
" Another time, sir ! another time ! " he walked
home with us. I am happy to say Miss Matilda
also left the shop in an equally bewildered state ;
not having purchased either green or red silk.
Mr. Holbrook was evidently full with honest,
loud-spoken joy at meeting his old love again.
He touched on the changes that had taken place ;
he even spoke of Miss Jenkyns as "Your poor
sister ! Well, well ! we have all our faults " ;
and bade us good by with many a hope that he
should soon see Miss Matey again. She went
straight to her room, and never came back till
our early tea-time, when I thought she looked as
if she had been crying.
A few days after, a note came from Mr. Hol-
brook, asking us, — impartially asking both of us,
— in a formal, old-fashioned style, to spend a day
at his house, — a long, June day, — for it was
June now. He named that he had also invited
his cousin, Miss Pole ; so that we might join in a
fly, which could be put up at his house.
A LOVE AFFAIR AT CRANFORD. 391
I expected Miss Matey to jump at this invita-
tion ; but, no ! Miss Pole and I had the greatest
difficulty in persuading her to go. She thought it
was improper ; and was even half annoyed when
we utterly ignored the idea of any impropriety in
her going with two other ladies to see her old
lover. Then came a more serious difficulty. She
did not think Deborah would have liked her to go.
This took us half a day's good hard talking to get
over ; but, at the first sentence of relenting, I
seized the opportunity, and wrote and despatched
an acceptance in her name, — fixing day and hour,
that all might be decided and done with.
The next morning she asked me if I would go
down to the shop with her ; and there, after much
hesitation, we chose out three caps to be sent home
and tried on, that the most becoming might be
selected to take with us on Thursday.
She was in a state of silent agitation all the way
to Woodley. She had evidently never been there
before, and although she little dreamt I knew
anything of her early story, I could perceive she
was in a tremor at the thought of seeing the place
which might have been her home, and round
which it is probable that many of her innocent,
girlish imaginations had clustered. It was a long
drive there, through paved, jolting lanes. Miss
Matilda sat bolt upright, and looked wistfully out
of the windows, as we drew near the end of our
journey. The aspect of the country was quiet
392 A LOVE AFFAIR AT CRANFORD.
and pastoral. Woodley stood among fields, and
there was an old-fashioned garden, where roses
and currant-bushes touched each other, and where
the feathery asparagus formed a pretty back-
ground to the pinks and gilly-flowers. There
was no drive up to the door. We got out at a
little gate, and walked up a straight, box-edged
path.
" My cousin might make a drive, I think," said
Miss Pole, who was afraid of ear-ache, and had
only her cap on. »
" I think it is very pretty," said Miss Matey,
with a soft plaintiveness in her voice, and almost
in a whisper, for just* then Mr. Holbrook ap-
peared at the door, rubbing his hands in the very
effervescence of hospitality. He looked more like
my idea of Don Quixote than ever, and yet the
likeness was only external. His respectable house-
keeper stood modestly at the door to bid us wel-
come ; and, while she led the elder ladies up-stairs
to a bed-room, I begged to look about the garden.
My request evidently pleased the old gentleman,
who took me all round the place, and showed me
his six-and-twenty cows, named after the different
letters of the alphabet. As we went along, he
surprised me occasionally by repeating apt and
beautiful quotations from the poets, ranging easily
from Shakespeare and George Herbert, to those
of our own day. He did this as naturally as if
he were thinking aloud ; as if their true and beau-
A LOVE AFFAIR AT CRANFORD. 393
tiful words were the best expression he could find
for what he was thinking or feeling. To be sure
he called Byron " my lord Byrron," and' pro-
nounced the name of Goethe strictly in accord-
ance with the English sound of the letters.
Altogether, I never met with a man, before or
since, who had spent so long a life in a secluded
and not impressive country, with ever-increasing
delight in the daily and yearly change of season
and beauty.
When he and I went in, we found that dinner
was nearly ready in the kitchen ; for so I suppose
the room ought to be called, as there were oak
dressers and cupboards all round, all over by the
side of the fireplace, and only a small Turkey car-
pet in the middle of the flag-floor. The room
might have been easily made into a handsome,
dark-oak dining-parlor, by removing the oven,
and a few other appurtenances of a kitchen, which
were evidently never used ; the real cooking-place
being at some distance. The room in which we
were expected to sit was a stiffly furnished, ugly
apartment ; but that in which we did sit was what
Mr. Hoi brook called the counting-house, where he
paid his laborers their weekly wages, at a great
desk near the door. The rest of the pretty sit-
ting-room — looking into the orchard, and all
covered over with dancing tree-shadows — was
filled with books. They lay on the ground, they
covered the walls, they strewed the table. He
17*
394 A LOVE AFFAIR AT CRANFORD.
was evidently half ashamed and half proud of his
extravagance in this respect. They were of all
kinds ; poetry, and wild, weird tales prevailing.
He evidently chose his books in accordance with
his own tastes, not because such and such were
classical, or established favorites.
" Ah ! " he said, " we farmers ought not to
have much time for reading ; yet somehow one
can't help it."
" What a pretty room ! ' said Miss Matey, sotto
voce.
" What a pleasant place ! " said I, aloud, al-
most simultaneously.
" Nay ! if you like it," replied he ; " but can
you sit on these great black leather three-cornered
chairs ? I like it better than the best parlor ; but
I thought ladies would take that for the smarter
place."
It was the smarter place; but, like most smart
things, not at all pretty, or pleasant, or home-
like ; so, wdiile we were at dinner, the servant-girl
dusted and scrubbed the counting-house chairs,
and we sat there all the rest of the day.
We had pudding before meat, and I thought
Mr. Holbrook was going to make some apology
for his old-fashioned ways ; for he began, " I
don't know whether you like new-fangled ways."
"O, not at all!" said Miss Matey.
" No more do I," said he. " My housekeeper
will have things in her new fashion ; or else I
A LOVE AFFAIR AT CRANFORD. 395
tell her, that when I was a young man, we used
to keep strictly to my father's rule, ' No broth,
no ball ; no ball, no beef ; and always began
dinner with broth. Then we had suet puddings,
boiled in the broth with the beef; and then the
meat itself. If we did not sup our broth, we
had no ball, which we liked a deal better ; and
the beef came last of all; and only those had it
who had done justice to the broth and the ball.
Now, folks begin with sweet things, and turn their
dinners topsy-turvy."
When the ducks and green peas came, we
looked at each other in dismay. We had only
two-pronged, black-handled forks. It is true, the
steel was as bright as silver ; but, what were we
to do ? Miss Matey picked up her peas, one by
one, on the point of the prongs. Miss Pole sighed
over her delicate young peas, as she left them on
one side of her plate untasted ; for they would
drop between her prongs. I looked at my host:
the peas were going wholesale into his capacious
mouth, shovelled up by his large round-ended
knife. I saw, I imitated, I survived ! My friends,
in spite of my precedent, could not muster up
courage enough to do an ungenteel thing ; and,
if Mr. Holbrook had not been so heartily hungry,
he would probably have seen that the good peas
went away almost untouched.
After dinner, a clay pipe was brought in, and
a spittoon ; and, asking us to retire to another
396 A LOVE AFFAIR AT CRANFORD.
room, where lie would soon join us, if we disliked
tobacco-smoke, he presented his pipe to Miss
Matey, and requested her to fill the bowl. This
was a compliment to a lady in his youth ; but it
was rather inappropriate to propose it as an honor
to Miss Matey, who had been trained by her sister
to hold smoking of every kind in utter abhor-
rence. But if it was a shock to her refinement,
it was also a gratification to her feelings, to be
thus selected ; so she daintly stuffed the strong
tobacco into the pipe ; and then we withdrew.
" It is very pleasant dining with a bachelor,"
said Miss Matey, softly, as we settled ourselves
in the counting-house ; " I only hope it is not
improper; so many pleasant things are!"
" What a number of books he has ! " said Miss
Pole, looking round the room. " And how dusty
they are ! "
" I think it must be like one of the great Dr.
Johnson's rooms," said Miss Matey. "What a
superior man your cousin must be ! "
" Yes ! " said Miss Pole ; " he 's a great reader ;
but I am afraid he has got into very uncouth
habits with living alone."
" Oh ! uncouth is too hard a word. I should
call him eccentric : very clever people always
are ! " replied Miss Matey.
When Mr. Holbrook returned, he proposed a
walk in the fields ; but the two elder ladies were
afraid of damp and dirt, and had only very
A LOVE AFFAIR AT CRANFORD. 397
unbecoming calashes to put on over their caps ;
so they declined, and I was again his companion
in a turn which he said he was obliged to take,
to see after his niece. He strode along, either
wholly forgetting my existence, or soothed into
silence by his pipe ; and yet it was not silence
exactly. He walked before me, with a stooping
gait, his hands clasped behind him, and as some
tree, or cloud, or glimpse at distant upland pas-
tures, struck him, he quoted poetry to himself;
saying it out loud, in a grand, sonorous voice, with
just the emphasis that true feeling and appre-
ciation give. We came upon an old cedar-tree,
which stood at one end of the house ;
' More black than ash-buds in the front of March,
A cedar spread his dark-green layers of shade.'
Capital term, ' layers ! ' Wonderful man ! '
I did not know whether he was speaking to
me or not ; but I put in an assenting " Wonder-
ful," although I knew nothing about it ; just be-
cause I was tired of being forgotten, and of being
consequently silent.
He turned sharp round. " Ay ! you may say
1 wonderful.' Why, when I saw the review of
his poems in ' Blackwood,' I set oif within an
hour, and walked seven miles to Misselton (for
the horses were not in the way), and ordered
them. Now, what color are ash-buds in March ? "
Is the man going mad ? thought I. He is very
like Don Quixote.
398 A LOVE AFFAIR AT CRANFORD.
" What color are they, I say ? " repeated he,
vehemently.
" I am sure I don't know - sir," said I, with
the meekness of ignorance.
" I knew you did n't. No more did I, an old
fool that I am ! till this young man comes and
tells me. Black as ash-buds in March. And
I 've lived all my life in the country ; more
shame for me not to know. Black ; they are jet-
black, madam." And he went off again, swing-
ing along to the music of some rhyme he had
got hold of.
When we came home, nothing would serve him
but that he must read us the poems he had been
speaking of; and Miss Pole encouraged him in his
proposal, I thought, because she wished me to hear
his beautiful reading, of which she had boasted ;
but she afterwards said it was because she had got
to a difficult part of crochet, and wanted to count
her stitches without having to talk. Whatever he
had proposed would have been right to Miss
Matey, although she did fall sound asleep within
five minutes after he began a long poem, called
" Locksley Hall," and had a comfortable nap, un-
observed, till he ended, when the cessation of his
voice wakened her up, and she said, feeling that
something was expected, and that Miss Pole was
counting, " What a pretty book ! "
" Pretty, madam ? It 's beautiful ! Pretty, in-
deed ! "
••
A LOVE AFFAIR AT CRANFORD. 399
" O yes, I meant beautiful ! " said she, fluttered
at his disapproval of her word. " It is so like that
beautiful poem of Dr. Johnson's my sister used to
read ! — I forget the name of it ; what was it, my
dear? " turning to me.
" Which do you mean, ma'am ? What was it
about ? "
" I don't remember what it was about, and I 've
quite forgotten what the name of it was ; but it
was written by Dr. Johnson, and was very beau-
tiful, and very like what Mr. Hoi brook has just
been reading."
" I don't remember it," said he, reflectively ;
" but I don't know Dr. Johnson's poems well. I
must read them."
As we were getting into the fly to return, I
heard Mr. Holbrook say he should call on the
ladies soon, and inquire how they got home ; and
this evidently pleased and fluttered Miss Matey at
the time he said it ; but after we had lost sight of
the old house among the trees, her sentiments
towards the master of it were gradually absorbed
into a distressing wonder as to whether Martha
had broken her word, and seized on the opportu-
nity of her mistress's absence to have a " follow-
er." Martha looked good and steady and com-
posed enough, as she came to help us out ; she
was always careful of Miss Matey, and to-night
she made use of this unlucky speech : " Eh,
dear ma'am, to think of your going out in an
400 A LOVE AFFAIR AT CRANFORD.
evening in such a thin shawl ! It is no better
than muslin. At your age, ma'am, you should be
carefuL"
" My age ! ' said Miss Matey, almost speaking
crossly, for her, for she was usually gentle ; " my
age ! Why, how old do you think I am, that you
talk about my age ? "
" Well, ma'am, I should say you were not far
short of sixty ; but folks' looks is often against
them, and I 'm sure I meant no harm."
" Martha, I 'm not yet fifty-two ! " said Miss
Matey, with grave emphasis ; for probably the
remembrance of her youth had come very vividly
before her this day, and she was annoyed at find-
ing that golden time so far away in the past.
But she never spoke of any former and more
intimate acquaintance with Mr. Hoi brook. She
had probably met with so little sympathy in her
early love, that she had shut it up close in her
heart ; and it was only by a sort of watching, which
I could hardly avoid since Miss Pole's confidence,
that I saw how faithful her poor heart had been in
its sorrows and its silence.
She gave me some good reason for wearing her
best cap every day, and sat near the window, in
spite of her rheumatism, in order to see, without
being seen, down into the street.
He came. He put his open palms upon his
knees, which were far apart, as he sat with his
head bent down, whistling, after we had replied to
A LOVE AFFAIR AT CRANFORD. 401
his inquiries about our safe return. Suddenly lie
jumped up.
" Well, madam, have you any commands for
Paris ? I 'm going there in a week or two."
" To Paris ! " we both exclaimed.
" Yes, ma'am. I 've never been there, and
always had a wish to go ; and I think if I don't
go soon I may n't go at all. So as soon as the
hay is got in I shall go, before harvest- time."
We were so much astonished that we had no
commissions.
Just as he was going out of the room, he turned
back, with his favorite exclamation, " Bless my
soul, madam ! but I nearly forgot half my errand.
Here are the poems for you, you admired so much
the other evening at my house." He tugged away
at a parcel in his coat pocket. " Good by, miss ! '
said he ; " good by, Matey ! take care of your-
self." And he was gone. But he had given her
a book, and he had called her Matey, just as he
used to do thirty years ago.
" I wish he would not go to Paris," said Miss
Matilda, anxiously. " I don't believe frogs will
agree with him. He used to have to be very care-
ful what he ate, which was curious in so strong-
looking a young man."
Soon after this I took my leave, giving many an
injunction to Martha to look after her mistress,
and to let me know if she thought that Miss Ma-
»
tilda was not so well ; in which case I would volun-
402 A LOVE AFFAIR AT CRANFORD.
teer a visit to my old friend, without noticing
Martha's intelligence to her.
Accordingly, I received a line or two from Mar-
tha every now and then ; and about November I
had a note to say her mistress was " very low and
sadly off her food " ; and the account made me so
uneasy, that, although Martha did not decidedly
summon me, I packed up my things and went.
I received a warm welcome, in spite of the little
flurry produced by my impromptu visit, for I had
only been able to give a day's notice. Miss
Matilda looked miserably ill, and I prepared to
comfort and cosset her.
I went down to have a private talk with Martha.
" How long has your mistress been so poorly ? "
I asked, as I stood by the kitchen fire.
" Well, I think it 's better than a fortnight ; it
is, I know. It was one Tuesday, after Miss Pole
had been here, that she went into this moping way.
I thought she was tired, and it would go off with
a night's rest ; but no ! she has gone on and on
ever since, till I thought it my duty to write to
you, ma'am."
" You did quite right, Martha. It is a comfort
to think she has so faithful a servant about her.
And I hope you find your place comfortable ? '
" Well, ma'am, missus is very kind, and there 's
plenty to eat and drink, and no more work but
what I can do easily ; but — " Martha hesitated.
" But what, Martha ? "
A LOVE AFFAIR AT CRANFORD. 403
" Why, it seems so hard of missus not to let me
have any followers. There 's such lots of young
fellows in the town, and many a one has as much
as offered to keep company with me, and I may
never be in such a likely place again, and it 's like
wasting an opportunity. Many a girl as I know
would have 'em unbeknowst to missus ; but I 've
given my word, and I '11 stick to it ; or else this is
just the house for missus never to be the wiser if
they did come. It's such a capable kitchen, —
there 's such good dark corners in it, — I 'd be
bound to hide any one. I counted up last Sunday
night, — for I '11 not deny I was crying because I
had to shut the door in Jem Hearn's face ; and
he 's a steady young man, fit for any girl ; only I
had given missus my word." Martha was all but
crying again ; and I had little comfort to give her,
for I knew, from old experience, the horror with
which both the Miss Jenkynses looked upon " fol-
lowers " ; and in Miss Matey's present nervous
state this dread was not like to be lessened.
I went to see Miss Pole the next day, and took
her completely by surprise, for she had not been
to see Miss Matilda for two days.
" And now I must go back with you, my dear,"
said she ; " for I promised to let her know how
Thomas Holbrook went on ; and I 'm sorry to say
his housekeeper has sent me word to-day that he
has n't long to live. Poor Thomas ! That jour-
ney to Paris was quite too much for him. His
404 A LOVE AFFAIR AT CRANFORD.
housekeeper says he has hardly ever been round
his fields since, but just sits with his hands on his
knees in the counting-house, not reading, or any-
thing, but only saying, what a wonderful city
Paris was ! Paris has much to answer for, if it 's
killed my cousin Thomas, for a better man never
lived."
" Does Miss Matilda know of his illness ? " asked
I, a new light as to the cause of her indisposition
dawning upon me.
" Dear ! to be sure, yes ! Has she not told
you ? I let her know a fortnight ago, or more,
when first I heard of it. How odd, she should n't
have told you ! "
Not at all, I thought ; but I did not say any-
thing. I felt almost guilty of having spied too
curiously into that tender heart ; and I was not
going to speak of its secrets, — hidden, Miss Matey
believed, from all the world. I ushered Miss Pole
into Miss Matilda's drawing-room ; and then left
them alone. But I was not surprised when Martha
came to my bed-room door, to ask me to go down
to dinner alone, for that missus had one of her bad
headaches. She came into the drawing-room at
tea-time ; but it was evidently an eifort for her.
As if to make up for some reproachful feeling
against her late sister, Miss Jenkyns, which had
been troubling her all the afternoon, and for which
she now felt penitent, she kept telling me how
good and how clever Deborah was in her youth ;
A LOVE AFFAIR AT CRANFORD. 405
how she used to settle what gowns they were to
wear at all the parties ; (faint, ghostly ideas of
dim parties far away in the distance, when Miss
Matey and Miss Pole were young !) and how
Deborah and her mother had started the benefit
society for the poor, and taught girls cooking and
plain sewing ; and how Deborah had danced with
a lord ; and how she used to visit at Sir Peter
Arley's, and try to remodel the quiet rectory
establishment on the plans of Arley Hall, where
they kept thirty servants ; and how she had nursed
Miss Matey through a long, long illness, of which
I had never heard before, but which I now dated,
in my own mind, as following the dismissal of the
suit of Mr. Holbrook. So we talked softly and
quietly of old times, through the long November
evening.
The next day, Miss Pole brought us word that
Mr. Holbrook was dead. Miss Matey heard the
news in silence. In fact, from the account on the
previous day, it was only what we had to expect.
Miss Pole kept calling upon us for some expres-
sions of regret, by asking if it was not sad that he
was gone, and saying, —
" To think of that pleasant day last June, when
he seemed so well ! And he might have lived this
dozen years, if he had not gone to that wicked
Paris, where they are always having Revolu-
tions."
She paused for some demonstration on our part.
406 A LOVE AFFAIR AT CRANFORD.
I saw Miss Matey could not speak, she was trem-
bling so nervously, so I said what I really felt-;
and after a call of some duration, — all the time of
which I have no doubt Miss Pole thought Miss
Matey received the news very calmly, — our visitor
took her leave. But the effort at self-control Miss
Matey had made to conceal her feelings, — a con-
cealment she practised even with me ; for she has
never alluded to Mr. Holbrook again, although
the book he gave her lies with her Bible on the
little table by her bedside. She did not think I
heard her when she asked the little milliner of
Cranford to make her caps something like the Hon.
Mrs. Jamieson's ; or that I noticed the reply, —
" But she wears widows' caps, ma'am ? "
" O, I only meant something in that style ;
not widows', of course, but rather like Mrs.
Jamieson's."
This effort at concealment was the beginning of
the tremulous motion of head and hands, which I
have seen ever since in Miss Matey.
The evening of the day on which we heard of
Mr. Holbrook's death, Miss Matilda was very
silent and thoughtful ; after prayers, she called
Martha back, and then she stood uncertain what
to sav.
" Martha ! " she said at last ; " you are young,"
— and then she made so long a pause, that Martha,
to remind her of her half-finished sentence, dropped
a courtesy, and said : " Yes, please, ma'am ; two-
and-twenty last third October, please, ma'am."
A LOVE AFFAIR AT CRANFORD. 407
" And perhaps, Martha, you may some time meet
with a young man you like, and who likes you. I
did say you were not to have followers ; but if you
meet with such a young man, and tell me, and I
find he is respectable, I have no objection to his
coming to see you once a week. God forbid ! '
said she, in a low voice, " that I should grieve
any young hearts."
She spoke as if she were providing for some
distant contingency, and was rather startled when
Martha made her ready, eager answer : " Please,
ma'am, there 's Jem Hearn, and he 's a joiner,
making three-and-sixpence a day, and six foot one
in his stocking-feet, please, ma'am ; and if you '11
ask about him to-morrow morning, every one will
give him a character for steadiness ; and he '11 be
glad enough to come to-morrow night, I '11 be
bound."
Though Miss Matey was startled, she submitted
to Fate and Love.
God is our Father. Heaven is his high throne,
and this earth is his footstool ; and while we sit
around and meditate, or pray, one by one, as we
fall asleep, He lifts us into his bosom, and our
awaking is inside the gates of an everlasting
world. — Mountford.
TO MY WIFE.
ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF OUR WEDDING.
NOW, Time and I, near fifty years,
Have managed kindly to agree ;
Pleased with the friendship he appears,
And means that all the world shall see.
For, with soft touch about my eyes,
The frosty, kindly, jealous friend
His drawing-pencil deftly plies,
And mars the face he thinks to mend.
Nor am I called alone to wear
Old Time, " His mark," in deepening trace ;
That " twain are one," this limner sere
Will print in lines on either face.-
*T is not, perhaps, a gallant thing
On such a morning to be told,
But Time doth yearly witness bring,
That — Bless you ! we are growing old.
TO MY WIFE. 409
Together we have lived and loved,
Together passed through smiles and tears,
And life's all-varying lessons proved
Through many constant married years.
And there is joy Time cannot reach,
A youth o'er which no power he hath,
If we cling closer, each to each,
And each to God, in hope and faith.
Anonymous.
In the summer evenings, when the wind blew low,
And the skies were radiant with the sunset glow,
Thou and I were happy, long, long years ago !
Love, the young and hopeful, hovered o'er us twain,
Filled us with sad pleasure and delicious pain,
In the summer evenings, wandering in the lane.
In the winter evenings, when the wild winds roar.
Blustering in the chimney, piping at the door,
Thou and I are happy, as in days of yore.
Love still hovers o'er us, robed in white attire,
Drawing heavenly music from an earthly lyre,
In the winter evenings, sitting by the fire.
Anonymous.
18
THE EVERGREEN OF OUR FEELINGS.
EXTRACTS FROM THE GERMAN OF J. P. RICHTER.
OPPOSE, as I would every useless
fear in men, the lamentation that our
feelings grow old with the lapse of
years. It is the narrow heart alone
which does not grow ; the wide one becomes
larger. Years shrivel the one, but they expand
the other. Man often mistakes concerning the
glowing depths of his feelings ; forgetting that they
may be present in all their energy, though in a
state of repose. In the wear and tear of daily
life, amid the care of providing support, per-
chance under misdemeanors, in comparing one
child with another, or in daily absences, thou
mayest not be conscious of the fervent affection
smouldering under the ashes of every-day life,
which would at once blaze forth into a flame, if
thy child were suffering innocently, or condemned
to die. Thy love was already there, prior to the
suffering of thy child and thyself. It is the same
THE EVERGREEN OF OUR FEELINGS. 411
in wedlock and friendship. In the familiarity of
daily presence, the heart beats and glows silently ;
but in the hours of meeting and parting, the
beautiful radiance of a long-nurtured flame re-
veals itself. It is on such occasions .that man
always most pleases me. I am then reminded of
the glaciers, which beam forth in rosy-red trans-
parency only at the rising and setting of the sun,
while throughout the day they look gray and
dark.
A golden mine of affection, of which the small-
est glimmer is scarcely visible, lies buried in the
breast until some magic word reveals it, and then
man discovers his ancient treasure. To me, it
is a delightful thought that, during the familiarity
of constant proximity, the heart gathers up in
silence the nutriment of love, as the diamond,
even beneath water, imbibes the light it emits.
Time, which deadens hatred, secretly strength-
ens love ; and in the hour of threatened separa-
tion its growth is manifested at once in radiant
brightness.
Another reason why man fancies himself chilled
by old age, is that he can then feel interested
only in higher objects than those which once ex-
cited him. The lover of nature, the preacher,
the poet, the actor, or the musician, may, in de-
clining years, find themselves slightly affected by
what delighted them in youth ; but this need
produce no fear that time will mar their sensi-
412 THE EVERGREEN OF OUR FEELINGS.
bility to nature, art, and love. Thou, as well as
I, may indeed weep less frequently than formerly,
at the theatre or at concerts ; but give us a truly
excellent piece, and we cannot suppress the emo-
tion it excites. Youth is like unbleached wax,
which melts under feeble sun-beams, while that
which has been whitened is scarcely warmed by
them. The mature or aged man avoids those
tears which youth invites ; because in him they
flow too hot, and dry too slowly.
Select a man of my age, and of my heart, with
my life-long want of highland scenery, and con-
duct him to the valley of the Rhine ! Bring him
to that long, attractive, sea-like river, flowing
between vine-clad hills on either side, as between
two regions of enchantment, reflecting only scenes
of pleasure, creating islands for the sake of clasp-
ing them in its arms ; let also a reflection of the
setting sun glow upon its waters ; and surely
youth would again be mirrored in the old man,
and that still ocean of infinity, which in the true
and highest heaven permits us to look down.
Memory, wit, fancy, acuteness, cannot grow
young again in old age ; but the heart can. In
order to be convinced of this, we need onlv
remember how the hearts of poets have glowed in
the autumn and winter seasons of life. He who
in old age can do without love, never in his youth
possessed the right sort, over which years have no
power. During winter, it is the withered branch-
THE EVERGREEN OF OUR FEELINGS. 413
es, not the living germs, that become encrusted
with ice. The loving heart will indeed often
bashfully conceal a portion of its warmth behind
children and grandchildren ; so that last love is
perhaps as coy as the first. But if an aged eye,
full of soul, is upraised, gleaming with memories
of its spring-time, is there anything in that to ex-
cite ridicule ? Even if it were silently moistened,
partly through gladness, and partly through a
feeling of the past, would it not be excusable ?
Might not an aged hand presume to press a young
hand, merely to signify thereby, I, too, was once
in Arcadia, and within me Arcadia still remains ?
In the better sort of men love is an interior senti-
ment, born in the soul ; why should it not con-
tinue with the soul to the end ? It is a part of
the attraction of tender and elevated love that its
consecrated hours leave in the heart a gentle, con-
tinuous, distinct influence ; just as, sometimes,
upon a heavenly spring-evening, fragrance, ex-
haled from warm blossoms in the surrounding
country penetrates every street of a city that has
no gardens.
I would exhort men to spare every true affec-
tion, and not to ridicule the overflowings of a
happy heart with more license than they would
the effusions of a sorrowing one. For the youth
of the soul is everlasting, and eternity is youth.
OUR SECRET DRAWER.
THERE is a secret drawer in every heart,
Wherein we lay our treasures, one by one ;
Each dear remembrance of the buried past,
Each cherished relic of the time that 's gone.
The old delights of childhood, long ago ;
The things we loved because we knew them best ;
The first discovered primrose in our path ;
The cuckoo's earliest note ; the robin's nest ;
The merry haymakings around our home ;
Our rambles in the summer woods and lanes ;
The story told beside the winter fire,
"While the wind moaned across the window panes ;
The golden dreams we dreamt in after years,
Those magic visions of our young romance ;
The sunny nooks, the fountains and the flowers,
Gilding the fairy landscape of our trance ;
OUR SECRET DRAWER. 415
The link which bound us, later still, to one
Who fills a corner in our life to-day,
Without whose love we dare not dream how dark
The rest would seem, if it were gone away ;
The song that thrilled our souls with very joy ;
The gentle word that unexpected came ;
The gift we prized because the thought was kind ;
The thousand, thousand things that have no name ;
All these, in some far hidden corner lie,
Within the mystery of that secret drawer,
Whose magic springs though stranger hands may touch,
Yet none may gaze upon its guarded store.
Anonymous.
" How seldom, friend, a great, good man inherits
Honor, or wealth, with all his worth and pains."
" For shame, dear friend, renounce this canting strain.
What wouldst thou that the great, good man obtain ?
Place, title, salary, — a gilded chain ?
Or throne on corpses which his sword has. slain ?
Goodness and greatness are not means, but ends.
Hath he not always treasures, always friends,
The great, good man ? Three treasures, love, and light,
And calm thoughts, regular as infant's breath ;
And three true friends, more sure than day and night, —
Himself, his Maker, and the angel Death."
Coleridge.
THE GOLDEN WEDDING.
The German custom of observing a festival called the Silver
Wedding, on the twenty-fifth anniversary of marriage, and a
Golden Wedding on the fiftieth anniversary, have now become
familiar to us by their frequent observance in this country. The
following description of such an anniversary in Sweden is from
the graceful pen of Fredrika Bremer, in her work entitled " The
Neighbors."
§f||) HERE was a patriarch and wife, and
only to see that ancient, venerable
couple made the heart rejoice. Tran-
sit quillity was upon their brows, cheer-
ful wisdom on their lips, and in their glance one
read love and peace. For above half a century
this ancient couple have inhabited the same house
and the same rooms. There they were married,
and there they are soon to celebrate their golden
nuptials. The rooms are unchanged, the furni-
ture the same it has been for fifty years ; but
everything is clean, comfortable, and friendly, as
in a one-year-old dwelling, though much more
simple than the houses of our time. I know not
THE GOLDEN WEDDING. 417
what spirit of peace and grace it is which breathes
upon me in this house ! Ah I in this house fifty
years have passed as a beautiful day. Here a vir-
tuous couple have lived, loved, and worked to-
gether. Many a pure joy has blossomed here ;
and when sorrow came, it was not bitter, for the
fear of God and mutual love illuminated the dark
clouds. Hence has emanated many a noble deed,
and many a beneficent influence. Happy children
grew up. They gathered strength from the exam-
ple of their parents, went out into the world, built
for themselves houses, and were good and fortu-
nate. Often do they return to the parental home,
to bless and to be blessed.
A long life of integrity, industry, and benefi-
cence has impressed itself on the father's expan-
sive forehead, and on his frank, benevolent deport-
ment. His figure is yet firm, and his gait steady.
The lofty crown is bald, but the venerable head is
surrounded by silver-white locks, like a garland.
No one in the city sees this head without bowing
in friendly and reverential greeting. The whole
country, as well as the city, loves him as their
benefactor, and venerates him as their patriarch.
He has created his own fortune, and sacrificed
much for the public good ; and notwithstanding
much adversity and loss, he has never let his spirit
sink. In mind and conversation he is still cheer-
ful, full of jest and sprightliness. But for several
years his sight has failed him greatly ; and at times
18* AA
418 THE GOLDEN WEDDING.
the gout troubles his temper. But an angel moves
round the couch to which suffermo; confines him ;
his feet are moved and enwrapped by soft white
hands ; the sick-chamber and the countenance of
the old man grow bright before his orphan grand-
child, Serena.
In the ao;ed countenance and bowed form of the
mother you see an old woman. But show her
something beautiful, speak to her of something
worthy of love, and her mien, her smile, beams
from the eternal youth which dwells immortal in
her sensitive spirit. Then you involuntarily ex-
claim, u What beautiful age ! " If you sit near
her, and look into her mild, pious eyes, you feel as
if you could open your whole soul, and believe in
every word she speaks, as in the Gospel. She has
lived through much and experienced much ; yet
she still says she will live in order to learn. Truly
we must all learn from her. Her tone and man-
ner betoken true politeness, and much knowledge
of life. She alone has educated her children, and
she still thinks and acts both for children and chil-
dren's children.
Will you see in one little circumstance a minia-
ture picture of the whole? Every evening the
old man himself roasts two apples ; every evening,
when they are done, he gives one of them to his
" handsome old wife," as he calls her. Thus for
fifty years have they divided everything with each
other.
THE GOLDEN WEDDING. 419
And now the day for their Golden Wedding
has arrived. The whole city and country take an
interest in it. It is as if all the people in the place
were related to the old Dahls. The young people
come from east and west, — Dahls here, Dahls
there, brave men and handsome children. A
swarm of cousins encounter one another at every
step. Brotherships and friendships are concluded.
If you wish to learn the true value of marriage,
— if you wish to see what this union may be for
two human hearts, and for life, — then observe,
not the wedded ones in their honeymoon, nor by
the cradle of their first child ; not at a time when
novelty and hope yet throw a morning glory over
the young and new-born world of home ; but sur-
vey them, rather, in the more remote years of
manhood, when they have proved the world and
each other ; when they have conquered many an
error, and many a temptation, in order to become
only the more united to each other ; when labors
and cares are theirs ; when, under the burden of
the day, as well as in hours of repose, they sup-
port one another, and find that they are sufficient
for each other. Or survey them still farther in
life. See them arrived at that period when the
world, with all its changes and agitations, rolls
far away from them ; when every object around
becomes more dim to them ; when their house is
still ; when they are solitary, yet they stand there
hand in hand, and each reads in the other's eyes
420 THE GOLDEN WEDDING.
only love ; when they, with the same memories
and the same hopes, stand on the boundaries of
another life, into which they are prepared to enter,
of all desires retaining only the one that they may
die on the same day. Yes, then behold them !
And, on that account, turn now to the patriarchs,
and to their Golden Wedding.
There is, indeed, something worth celebrating,
thought I, when I awoke in the morning. The
sun seemed to be of the same opinion, for it shone
brightly on the snow-covered roof of the aged
pair. I wrapped myself in my cloak, and went
forth to carry my congratulations to the old peo-
ple, and to see if I could be helpful to Serena.
The aged couple sat in the anteroom, clad in fes-
tal attire, each in their own easy-chair. A large
bouquet of fresh flowers and a hymn-book were
on the table. The sun shone in through snow-
white curtains. It was peaceful and cheerful in
the room. The patriarch appeared, in the sunny
light, as if surrounded by a glory. I offered my
congratulations with emotion, and was embraced
by them, as by a father and mother. " A lovely
day, Madame Werner," said the old gentleman,
as he looked toward the window. " Yes, beauti-
ful indeed," I answered. " It is the feast of love
and truth on the earth." The two old people
smiled, and clasped each other's hands.
There was great commotion in the hall, caused
by the arrival of troops of children and grand-
THE GOLDEN WEDDING. 421
children, who all, in holiday garb, and with joy-
ous looks, poured in to bring their wishes of hap-
piness to the venerable parents. It was charming
to see these groups of lovely children cling round
the old people, like young saplings round aged
stems. It was charming to see the little rosy
mouths turned up to kiss, the little arms stretch-
ing to embrace them, and to hear the clamor of
loving words and exulting voices.
I found Serena in the kitchen, surrounded by
people, and dealing out viands ; for to-day the
Dahls made a great distribution of food and
money to the poor. Serena accompanied the gifts
with friendly looks and words, and won blessings
for her grandparents.
• • • • •
At eight in the evening, the wedding guests
began to assemble. In the street where they
lived the houses were illuminated in honor of the
patriarchs, and lamps burned at the corners. A
great number of people, with glad countenances,
wandered up and down the street, in the still,
mild winter evening. The house of the Dahls
was thrown into the shade by the brilliancy of
those in the neighborhood ; but there was light
within.
Serena met me at the door of the saloon. She
wore a white garland in her light-brown hair.
How charming she was in her white dress, with
her kindly blue eyes, her pure brow, and the
422 THE GOLDEN WEDDING.
heavenly smile on her lips ! She was so friendly,
so amiable, to everybody ! Friends and relatives
arrived ; the rooms became filled. They drank
tea, ate ices, and so on ; and then there fell at
once a great silence. The two old people seated
themselves in two easy-chairs, which stood near
each other in the middle of the saloon, on a richly
embroidered mat. Their children and their chil-
dren's children gathered in a half-circle round
them. A clergyman of noble presence stepped
forward, and pronounced an oration on the beauty
and holiness of marriage. He concluded with a
reference to the life of the venerable pair, which
was in itself a better sermon on the excellence of
marriage, for the human heart, and for life, than
was his speech, though what he said was true and
touching. There was not a dry eye in the whole
company. All were in a solemn, affectionate
mood.
Meantime, preparations for the festival were
completed in the second story, to which the guests
ascended. Here tableaux were presented, whose
beauty and grace exceeded everything I had an-
ticipated. The last one consisted of a well-ar-
ranged group of all the descendants of the Dahls,
during the exhibition of which a chorus was sung.
The whole exhibition gave great and general pleas-
ure. When the chorus ceased, and the curtain
fell, the doors of the dance-saloon flew open ; a
dazzling light streamed thence, and lively music
THE GOLDEN WEDDING. 423
set all the hearts and feet of the young people in
lively motion.
We sat talking pleasantly together, till supper
was served, on various little tables, in three rooms.
Lagman Hok raised his glass, and begged permis-
sion to drink a toast. All were attentive. Then,
fixing a mild, confident gaze on the patriarchs, he
said, in a low voice : " Flowers and Harps were
woven into the mat on which our honored friends
this evening heard the words of blessing pro-
nounced over them. They are the symbols of
Happiness and Harmony ; and these are the Pe-
nates of this house. That they surround you in
this festive hour, venerable friends, we cannot re-
gard as an accident. I seemed to hear them
say, ' During your union you have so
welcomed and cherished us, that
we are at home here, and can
never forsake you. Your
age shall be like your
youth ! ' "
• The wisest man may be wiser to-day than he
was yesterday, and to-morrow than he is to-day.
Colton.
THE WORN WEDDING RING.
By W. C. BENNETT.
YOUR wedding ring wears thin, dear wife. Ah,
summers not a few,
Since I put it on your finger first, have passed o'er me
and you.
And, love, what changes we have seen ! what cares and
pleasures too !
Since you became my own dear wife, when this old
ring was new.
O blessings on that happy day, the happiest of my life,
When, thanks to God, your low, sweet "Yes" made you
my loving wife !
Your heart will say the same, I know ; that day 's as
dear to you,
The day that made me yours, dear wife, when this old
ring was new.
How well do I remember now your young, sweet face
that day !
How fair you were, how dear you were, my tongue
could hardly say ;
THE WORN WEDDING RING. 425
Nor how I doated on you. Ah, how proud I was of you !
But did I love you more than now, when this old ring
was new ?
No ! No ! no fairer were you then, than at this hour, to
me ;
And dear as life to me this day, how could you dearer
be?
As sweet your face might be that day as now it is, 't is
true ;
But did I know your heart as well, when this old ring
was new ?
O partner of my gladness, wife, what care, what grief,
is there
For me you would not bravely face? with me you
would not share ?
O, what a weary want had every day, if wanting you I
Wanting the love that God made mine when this old
ring was new !
Years bring fresh links to bind us, wife, — small voices
that are here,
Small faces round our fire that make their mother's yet
more dear,
Small, loving hearts, your care each day makes yet
more like to you,
More like the loving heart made mine when this old
ring was new.
And, blessed be God, all He has given are with us yet ;
around
Our table every little life lent to us still is found ;
126 THE WORN WEDDING RING.
Though cares we 've known, with hopeful hearts the
worst we 've struggled through ;
Blessed be His name for all His love since this old ring
was new.
The past is dear ; its sweetness still our memories treas-
ure yet ;
The griefs we 've borne, together borne, we would not
now forget.
Whatever, wife, the future brings, heart unto heart still
true,
We '11 share, as we have shared all, else, since this old
ring was new.
And if God spare us, 'mongst our sons and daughters to
grow old,
We know His goodness will not let your heart or mine
grow cold.
Your aged eyes will see in mine all they Ve still shown
to you ;
And mine in yours all they have seen since this old
ring was new. ■
And O, when death shall come at last to bid me to my
rest,
May I die looking in those eyes, and resting on that
breast !
O, may my parting gaze be blessed with the dear sight
of vou !
Of those fond eyes, — fond as they were when this old
ring was new.
Chambers's Journal.
HINTS ABOUT HEALTH.
By L. MARIA CHILD.
HERE are general rules of health,
that cannot be too often repeated and
urged, concerning which physicians
£ of all schools are nearly unanimous.
All who are acquainted with the physical laws
of our being, agree that too much food is eaten.
As far back as the twelfth century, the School
of Salerno, the first Medical School established in
Europe, published Maxims for Health, among
which were the following : " Let these three things
be your physicians ; cheerfulness, moderate re-
pose, and diet." " Eat little supper, and you will
sleep quietly." A few years ago, the celebrated
French physician, Dumoulin, in his last illness,
said to friends who were lamenting the loss of
his medical services, " I shall leave behind me
three physicians much greater than I am : water,
exercise, and diet."
The Rev. Sydney Smith says : " The longer I
428 HINTS ABOUT HEALTH.
live, the more I am convinced that half the un-
happiness in the world proceeds from little stop-
pages ; from a duct choked up, from food press-
ing in the wrong place, from a vexed duodenum,
or an agitated pylorus. The deception, as prac-
tised upon human creatures, is curious and enter-
taining. My friend sups late ; he eats some strong
soup, then a lobster, then some tart, and he di-
lutes these excellent varieties with wine. The
next day I call upon him. He is going to sell
his house in London, and to retire into the coun-
try. He is alarmed for his eldest daughter's health.
His expenses are hourly increasing, and nothing
but a timely retreat can save him from ruin. All
this is the lobster. Old friendships are some-
times destroyed by toasted cheese, and hard salted
meat has led to suicide. I have come to the
conclusion that mankind consume twice too much
food. According to my computation, I have eaten
and drunk, between my tenth and seventieth
year, forty-four horse-wagon loads more than was
good for me."
The example of Ludovicus Cornaro is a very
striking proof of the advantages of abstinence.
Modern physicians agree with him, that it is par-
ticularly wise for people, as they grow older, to
diminish the quantity of solid food. Little should
be eaten, especially by those who do not exercise
greatly; and that little should be light and nu-
tritious. It is also important that food and sleep
should be taken at regular intervals.
HINTS ABOUT HEALTH. 429
Early rising, and frequent, though not exces-
sive exercise, are extremely conducive to good
health and good spirits. There is now living in
South Kingston, R. I., an old man, named Eben-
ezer Adams, who is past ninety, and has never
called upon a physician, or taken a single pre-
scription, in his whole life. He has mowed every
season for the last seventy-five years. The past
summer he has raised with his own hands one
hundred and thirty bushels of potatoes, and har-
vested them himself; conveying them about three
quarters of a mile, in a wheelbarrow, to his house.
He has raised and harvested forty bushels of
corn himself. He has mowed and put up, with-
out the help of man or beast, six tons of hay.
He hauled it on hay-poles of his own manufac-
ture, and put it in the barn himself. He carries
his corn two miles and a half, two bushels at a
time, in a wheelbarrow, to the mill, himself. Rainy
weather, and in winter, he is at work at his trade
as a cooper. His uninterrupted health is doubtless
mainly owing to constant exercise in the open air.
The Rev. John Wesley, speaking of his re-
markable freedom from fatigue amid the inces-
sant labors of his old age, says : " I owe it to
the goodness of God. But one natural cause un-
doubtedly is my continual exercise, and change
of air. How the latter contributes to health, I
know not ; but it undoubtedly does."
The Duke of Wellington, who retained his men-
430 HINTS ABOUT HEALTH.
tal and physical faculties, in a remarkable degree,
to an advanced age, lived with so much simplicity,
that a celebrated cook left his service on the plea
that he had no opportunity to display his skill.
He was in the habit of applying vigorous friction
to all his body daily. He slept on his narrow, iron
camp bedstead, and walked briskly, or rode on
horseback, while other gentlemen were sleeping.
He made no use of tobacco in any form. For
many years he refrained from the use of wine, say-
ing he found no advantage from it, and relinquished
it for the sake of his health.
The Hon. Josiah Quincy is a memorable ex-
ample of vigorous old age. He has always been
an early riser, and very active in his habits, both
intellectual and physical. For many years, he has
practised gymnastics fifteen minutes every morn-
ins;, before dressing ; throwing his limbs about
with an agility which few young men could sur-
pass. Believing the healthy state of the skin to
be of great importance, he daily applies friction to
his whole body, by means of horse-hair gloves.
He is temperate in his diet, and rarely tastes of
wine. He is careful not to let his mind rust for
want of use. He is always adding to his stock of
knowledge, and he takes a lively interest in public
affairs. He is now past ninety ; yet few have
spoken so wisely and boldly as he has concerning
the national emergencies which have been occurring
during the last ten years. He profits by a hint he
HINTS ABOUT HEALTH. 431
received from the venerable John Adams, in answer
to the question how he had managed to preserve
the vigor of his mind to such an advanced age.
" Simply by exercising it," replied Mr. Adams.
" Old minds are like old horses ; you must exercise
them if you wish to keep them in working order."
A few years since, the Rev. Daniel Waldo ad-
dressed the graduates at Yale College, on Com-
mencement Day. In the course of his remarks,
he said : "I am now an old man. I have seen
nearly a century. Do you want to know how to
grow old slowly and happily ? Let me tell you.
Always eat slowly ; masticate well. Go to your
food, to your rest, to your occupations, smiling.
Keep a good nature and a soft temper everywhere.
Never give way to anger. A violent tempest of
passion tears down the constitution more than a
typhus fever."
Leigh Hunt says : " Do not imagine that
mind alone is concerned in your bad spirits. The
body has a great deal to do with these matters.
The mind may undoubtedly affect the body ; but
the body also affects the mind. There is a reac-
tion between them ; and by lessening it on either
side you diminish the pain of both. If you are
melancholy, and know not why, be assured it must
arise entirely from some physical weakness, and do
your best to strengthen yourself. The blood of a
melancholy man is thick and slow. The blood of
a lively man is clear and quick. Endeavor, there-
432 HINTS ABOUT HEALTH.
fore, to put your blood in motion. Exercise is the
best way to do it."
The homelv old maxim, —
" After breakfast, work a while ;
After dinner, sit and smile ;
After supper, walk a mile/' —
contains a good deal of practical wisdom. Manual
labor in the forenoon ; cheerful conversation, or
music, after dinner ; a light supper, at five or six
o'clock, and a pleasant walk afterward, will pre-
serve health, and do much to restore it, if under-
mined. A walk at any period of the day does the
body twice as much good if connected with some
object that interests the mind or heart. To walk
out languidly into infinite space, merely to aid
digestion, as rich epicures are wont to do, takes
half the virtue out of exercise.
An aged clergyman, who had never known a
dav's illness, was asked how he accounted for it.
He replied, " Dry feet and early rising have been
my only precautions." In " Hall's Journal of
Health " I find the following advice, of which I
know the value by experience : " If you are well,
let yourself alone. This is our favorite motto.
But to you whose feet are inclined to be cold, we
suggest that as soon as you get up in the morning,
put your feet at once in a basin of cold water, so as
to come half-way to the ankles ; keep them in half
a minute in winter, or two minutes in summer,
rubbing them both vigorously ; wipe dry, and hold
HINTS ABOUT HEALTH. 433
to the fire, if convenient, in cold weather, until
every part of the foot feels as dry as your hand,
then put on your socks or stockings. On going to
bed at night, draw off your stockings, and hold the
foot to the fire for ten or fifteen minutes, until per-
fectly dry, and get right into bed. This is a most
pleasant operation, and fully repays for the trouble
of it. No one can sleep well or refreshingly with
cold feet. Never step from your bed with the
naked feet on an uncarpeted floor. I have known
it to be the exciting cause of months of illness.
Wear woollen, cotton, or silk stockings, whichever
keep your feet most comfortable ; do not let the
experience of another be your guide, for different
persons require different articles ; what is good for
a person whose feet are naturally damp, cannot be
good for one whose feet are always dry."
In Italy, and all the other grape-growing coun-
tries of Europe, people have the habit of drinking
wine with breakfast. Cornaro followed the gen-
eral custom, and he recommends a moderate use
of wine as essential to old people. But at that re-
mote period there was less knowledge of the phys-
ical laws than there now is. He confesses that
he always found old wine very deleterious to him,
and that for many years he never tasted any but
new wine. Sir Walter Raleigh, who was born
only ninety years later than Cornaro, gives the
following sensible advice : " Except thou desire to
hasten thy end, take this for a general rule : that
19 BB
434 HINTS ABOUT HEALTH.
thou never add any artifical heat to thy body by
wine or spice, until thou rind that time hath de-
cayed thy natural heat ; and the sooner thou dost
begin to help Nature, the sooner she will forsake
thee, and leave thee to trust altogether to art."
The late Dr. Warren, in his excellent little book
on the " Preservation of Health," bears the follow-
ing testimony : " Habitual temperance in regard to
the quantity of food, regular exercise, and absti-
nence from all stimulants except for medicinal pur-
poses, would greatly diminish or obviate the evils
of age. It is idle to say that men can and do live
sometimes even to great age under the practice of
various excesses, particularly under the use of
stimulants. The natural and sufficient stimulus
of the stomach is healthy food. Any stimulus
more active produces an unnatural excitement,
which will ultimately tell in the great account of
bad habits. The old adage, 4 Wine is the milk
of age,' is not supported by exact observation of
facts. For more than twenty years I have had
occasion to notice a great number of instances of
the sudden disuse of wine without mischievous
results. On the contrary, the disuse has generally
been followed by an improvement of appetite, free-
dom from habitual headache, and a tranquil state
of body and mind. Those who have been educat-
ed to the use of wine do, indeed, find some incon-
venience from the substitution of a free use of
water. If, however, they begin by taking the
HINTS ABOUT HEALTH. 435
pure fluid in moderate quantities only, no such
inconvenience occurs. The preceding remarks
may be applied to beer, cider, and other ferment-
ed liquors. After the age of sixty, I myself gave
up the habit of drinking wine ; and, so far from
experiencing any inconvenience, I have found my
health better without it than with it."
Dr. Warren's exhortations against the use of
tobacco are very forcible. He says : " The habit
of smoking impairs the natural taste and relish for
food, lessens the appetite, and weakens the powers
of the stomach. Tobacco, being drawn in with
the vital breath, conveys its poisonous influence
into every part of the lungs. The blood, having
imbibed the narcotic principle, circulates it through
the whole system. Eruptions on the skin, weak-
ness of the stomach, heart, and lungs, dizziness,
headache, confusion of thought, and a low febrile
action must be the consequence. Where there is
any tendency to diseases of the lungs, the debility
of these organs consequent on the smoking of to-
bacco must favor the deposit of tuberculous mat-
ter, and thus sow the seeds of consumption.
" Snuff received into the nostrils enters the
cavities opening from them, and makes a snuff-
box of the olfactory apparatus. The voice is con-
sequently impaired, sometimes to a remarkable
degree. I knew a gentleman of the legal profes-
sion who, from the use of snuff occasionally, lost
the power of speaking audibly in court. More-
436 HINTS ABOUT HEALTH.
over, portions of this powder are conveyed into
the lungs and stomach, and exert on those organs
their deleterious effects.
" The worst form in which tobacco is employed
is in chewing. This vegetable is one of the most
powerful of narcotics. A very small portion of it
— say a couple of drachms, and perhaps even
less — received into the stomach might prove fa-
tal. When it is taken into the mouth in smaller
portions, and there retained some time, an absorp-
tion of part of it into the system takes place, which
has a most debilitating effect. If we wished to
reduce our physical powers in a slow yet certain
way, we could not adopt a more convenient pro-
cess. The more limited and local effects are indi-
gestion, fixed pains about the region of the stom-
ach, debility of the back, affections of the brain,
producing vertigo, and also affections of the mouth,
generating cancer."
Too much cannot be said in favor of frequently
washing the whole person in cold water, or, if not
entirely cold in winter, at least as nearly so as it
can be without producing a chill. It operates both
as a purifier and a tonic. The health in all re-
spects greatly depends upon keeping the pores of
the skin open. Attacks of rheumatism might often
be warded off by this habit. The washing should
be in a warm room, and followed immediately by a
smart rubbing with a coarse towel.
When wounds, bruises, or cracks in the skin
HINTS ABOUT HEALTH. 437
become inflamed and feverish, there is no applica-
tion better than a linen rag, doubled six or eight
times, wet with cold water, and bound on with a
thick, dry, cotton bandage, which completely cov-
ers it. Inveterate sores will be healed by a repe-
tition of this application. The same is true of
sore throat ; but the wet cloth should be carefully
and completely covered with dry woollen, so as to
exclude the air. When removed, it should be
done soon after one rises in the morning; the
throat should then be plentifully sponged with
cold water, and wiped thoroughly dry. There is
danger of taking cold after the application of hot
or warm water ; but it is not so with the use of
cold water.
It is a great preservation to the eyesight to
plunge the face into cold water every morning,
and wink the eyes in it while one counts thirty or
forty. In order to do this, one must draw in the
breath when about to plunge the head into the
water, and hold the breath while it remains there.
It seems difficult to do this at first, but it soon be-
comes easy. It is well to repeat the operation six
or eight times every morning. In cold weather,
put in warm water enough to prevent a painful
chill.
Before retiring to rest, great care should be
taken to remove every particle of food from be-
tween the teeth with a tooth-pick of willow, or
ivory, and cleanse the mouth very thoroughly by
438 HINTS ABOUT HEALTH.
the use of the brush, and rinsing. It is more ira-
portant at night than in the morning ; because
during sleep an active process of fermentation goes
on, which produces decay. It is an excellent plan
to hold a piece of charcoal in the mouth fre-
quently. It arrests incipient toothache and de-
cay, and tends to preserve the teeth by its antisep-
tic properties. If chewed, it should not be swal-
lowed, except occasionally, and in small quantities ;
and it should never be rubbed on the teeth, as it
injures the enamel.
Old people are generally reluctant to admit that
the present generation is wiser than the past ; but
in one respect all must allow that there is obvious
improvement. Far less medicine is taken than
formerly; and more attention is paid to diet.
Still, people by no means pay sufficient attention
to the good old maxim, u An ounce of prevention
is worth a pound of cure." Nature gives us
kindly warnings, which we thoughtlessly neglect.
When the head aches and the skin is hot, we often
continue to eat hearty food, merely because we
like the taste of it ; and the result of this impru-
dence is a fever, which might have been easily
and cheaply prevented by living two or three days
on bread and water, or simple gruels.
Fruits are among the best as well as the pleas-
antest of remedies. Fresh currants agree with
nearly all dyspeptics, and are excellent for people
of feverish tendencies ; cranberries also. The
HINTS ABOUT HEALTH. 489
abundant use of apples is extremely conducive to
health. The free use of grapes is said to cure
liver-complaints, and to be in other respects salu-
tary for the system. Linnaeus tells us that he was
cured of severe rheumatism by eating strawber-
ries, and that he afterward habitually resorted to
them when he had an attack of that painful dis-
ease. Captain Cook has also recorded, that when
he touched at an island where strawberries were in
great profusion, the crew, devoured them eagerly,
and were cured of a scorbutic complaint, which
had afflicted them greatly. Lemonade and oran-
ges are recommended for rheumatism : vegetable
acids in general being salutary for that disease.
Mother Nature is much kinder to us than
we are to ourselves. She loves to lead
us gently, and the violent reactions
from which we suffer we bring
upon ourselves by violat-
ing the laws she is con-
stantly striving to
teach us.
" How shall I manage to be healthy?' said a
wealthy invalid to the famous Dr. Abernethy.
44 Live on sixpence a day, and earn it," was his
laconic reply.
THE INVALID'S PRAYER.
OTHOU, whose wise, paternal love
Hath cast my active vigor down,
Thy choice I thankfully approve ;
And, prostrate at Thy gracious throne,
I offer up ray life's remains ;
I choose the state my God ordains.
Cast as a broken vessel by,
Thy will I can no longer do ;
But while a daily death I die,
Thy power I can in weakness show ;
My patience shall thy glory raise,
My steadfast trust proclaim thy praise.
Wesley.
Trials make our faith sublime,
Trials give new life to prayer,
Lift us to a holier clime,
Make us strong to do and bear.
Cowpek.
THE OLD PASTOR AND HIS SON,
FROM THE GERMAN OF JEAN PAUL RICHTER.
,N the little village of Heim, Gottreich
Hartmann resided with his old father,
who was a curate. The old man had
wellnigh outlived all those whom he
had loved, but he was made happy by his son.
Gottreich discharged for him his duties in the
parish, not so much in aid of his parent's un-
tiring vigor, as to satisfy his own energy, and to
give his father the exquisite gratification of being
edified by his child and companion.
In Gottreich there thrilled a spirit of true
poetry ; and his father also had, in his youth, a
poet's ardor, of like intensity, but it had not been
favored by the times. Son and father seemed
to live in one another ; and on the site of filial
and paternal love there arose the structure of a
rare and peculiar friendship. Gottreich not only
cheered his father by the new birth of his own
lost poet-youth, but by the still more beautiful
19*
442 THE OLD PASTOR AND HIS SON.
similarity of their faith. The father found again
his old Christian heart sending forth new shoots
in the bosom of Gottreich, and moreover the best
justification of the convictions of his life and of
his love.
If it be pain for us to love and to contradict
at the same time, to refuse with the head what
the heart grants, it is all the sweeter to us to
find ourselves and our faith transplanted into a
younger being. Life is then as a beautiful night,
in which, as one star goes down, another rises
in its place. Gottreich possessed a paradise, in
which he labored as his father's gardener. He
was at once the wife, the brother, the friend of
his parent ; the all that is to be loved by man.
Every Sunday brought him a new pleasure, — that
of preaching a sermon before his father. If the
eyes of the old man became moistened, or if he
suddenly folded his hands in an attitude of prayer,
that Sunday became the holiest of festivals. Many
a festival has there been in that quiet little par-
sonage, the joyfulness of which no one understood
and no one perceived. The love and approba-
tion of an energetic old man, like Hartmann,
whose spiritual limbs had by no means stiffened
on the chilly ridge of years, could not but ex-
ercise a powerful influence on a young man like
Gottreich, who, more tenderly and delicately
formed both in body and mind, was wont to shoot
forth in loftier and more rapid flame.
THE OLD PASTOR AND HIS SON. 443
To these two happy men was added a happy
woman also. Justa, an orphan, sole mistress of
her property, had sold the house which had been
her father's in the city, and had removed into
the upper part of a good peasant's cottage, to
live entirely in the country. Justa did nothing
by halves ; she often did things more than com-
pletely, as most would think at least, ii. all that
touched her generosity. She had not long re-
sided in the village of Heim, and seen the meek
Gottreich, and listened to some of his spring-
tide sermons, ere she discovered that he had won
her heart, filled as it was with the love of virtue.
She nevertheless refused to give him her hand
until the conclusion of the great peace, after
which they were to be married. She was ever
more fond of doing; what is difficult than what
is easy. I wish it were here the place to tell
of the May-time life they led, which seemed to
blossom in the low parsonage-house, near the
church-door, under Justa's hand ; how she came
from her own cottage, in the morning, to order
matters in the little dwelling for the day ; how
the evenings were passed in the garden, orna-
mented with a few pretty flower-beds, and com-
manding a view of many a well-watered meadow,
and distant hill, and stars without number ; how
these three hearts played into one another, no
one of which, in this most pure and intimate in-
tercourse, knew or felt anvthing which was not
444 THE OLD PASTOR AND HIS SON.
of the fairest ; and how cheerfulness and good in-
tention marked the passage of their lives. Every
bench was a church seat, all was peaceful and
holy, and the firmament above was an infinite
church-dome.
In many a village and in many a house is hid-
den a true Eden, which has neither been named
nor marked down ; for happiness is fond of cover-
ing over and concealing her tenderest flowers.
Gottreich reposed in such tenderness of love and
bliss, of poetry and religion, of spring-time, of the
past and of,the future, that, in the depths of his
heart, he feared to speak out his happiness, save in
prayer. In prayer, thought he, man may say all
his happiness and his misery. His father was very
happy also. There came over him a warm old
age ; no winter night, but a summer evening
without chill or darkness ; albeit the sun of his
life was sunk pretty deep below the mound of
earth under which his wife was lain down to sleep.
In these sweetest May-hours of youth, when
heaven and earth and his own heart were beating
together in triune harmony, Gottreich gave ar-
dent words to his ardent thoughts, and kept them
written down, under the title of " Reminiscences
of the best Hours of Life, for the Hour of Death."
He meant to cheer himself, in his last hours, with
these views of his happy life ; and to look back,
through them, from the glow of his evening to the
bright morning of his youth.
THE OLD PASTOR AND HIS SON. 445
Thus lived these three beings, ever rejoicing
more deeply in one another, and in their genial
happiness, when the chariots of war began to roll
over the land.* Gottreich became another man.
The active powers of his nature, which had here-
tofore been the quiet audience of his poetical and
oratorical powers, now arose. It seemed as if the
spirit of energy, which hitherto had wasted itself
on empty air, like the flames of a bituminous soil,
were now seeking an object to lay hold of. He
did not venture to propose separating from his
father, but he alternately refreshed and tormented
himself inwardly with the idea of sharing the labors
and combats of his countrymen. He confided his
wishes to Justa only ; but she did not give him
encouragement, because she feared the old man's
solitude would be too great for him to bear. But
at last the old man himself became inspirited for
the war, by Gottreich and his betrothed ; and he
said to his son that he had better go ; that he
knew he had long desired it, and had only been
silent through love for him. He hoped, with
God's aid, to be able to discharge his pastoral
duties for a year, and thus he also would be
doing something to serve his country.
Gottreich departed, trusting to the autumnal
strength of his father's life. He enlisted as a com-
mon soldier, and preached also wherever he was
* The war of 1813, against Napoleon, to secure the indepen-
dence of Germany.
446 THE OLD PASTOR AND HIS SON.
able. The entrance on a new career awakens
new energies and powers, which rapidly unfold
into life and vigor. Although fortune spared him
the wounds which he would willingly have brought
back with him into the peaceful future of his life,
in memory of the focus of his youth, as it were,
yet it was happiness enough to take part in the
battles, and, like an old republican, to fight to-
gether with a whole nation, for the common cause.
At length, in the beautiful month of May, the
festivals of victory and peace began in more than
one nation ; and Gottreich was unwilling to pass
those days of rejoicing so far from the friends who
were dearest to him. He Ion ere d for their com-
pany, that his joy might be doubled ; so he took
the road to Heim. Thousands at that time jour-
neyed over the liberated land, from a happy past
to a happy future. But there were few who saw,
like Gottreich, so pure a firmament over the moun-
tains of his native valleys, in which not a star was
missing, but every one of them was bright and
twinkling. Justa had, from time to time, sent
him the little annals of the parsonage. She had
written how she longed for his return, and how his
father rejoiced ; how well the old man stood the
labors of his office ; and how she had still better
secrets in store for him. To these belonged, per-
haps, her promise, which he had not forgotten, to
give him her hand after the great peace.
With such prospects before him, Gottreich ever
THE OLD PASTOR AND HIS SON. 447
enjoyed in thought that holy evening when he
should see the sun go down at Heim, — when he
should arrive unexpectedly, to relieve the old man
from all his cares, and begin to prepare the tran-
quil festivities of the village. As he was thinking
of that day's meeting, when he should clasp those
fond hearts to his own, and as the mountains above
his father's village were seen more and more clear-
ly in relief against the blue sky, the Reminiscences
of the best hours of life, which he had written for
the hour of death, echoed and re-echoed in his
soul ; and, as he went along, he dwelt particularly
upon one among them, which commemorated the
joy of meeting again here below.
A shower was coming up behind him, of which
he seemed to be the happy messenger ; for the
parched ground, the drooping flowers, and the
ears of corn had long been thirsting for water
from the warm clouds. A parishioner of Heim,
who was laboring in the fields, saluted him as he
passed, and expressed joy that Gottreich and the
rain had both come at last. Soon he caught sight
of the low church-steeple, peeping above the clus-
tered trees ; and he entered upon that tract in the
valley where the parsonage lay, all reddened by
the evening sun. At every window he hoped to
see his betrothed one, thinking perchance she
might be looking out on the sunset before the
storm came on. As he drew nearer, he hoped to
see the lattice open, and Whitsuntide-brooms in
448 THE OLD PASTOR AND HIS SON.
the chief apartment ; but he v saw nothing of all
this.
At last, he quietly entered the parsonage-house,
and slowly opened the well-known door. The
room was empty, but he heard a noise overhead.
When he entered the chamber, it was filled with a
glow from the west, and Justa was kneeling by the
bed of his father, who was sitting half upright, and
looking, with a stiff, haggard countenance, toward
the setting sun before him. One exclamation, and
a clasp of her lover to her breast, was all his re-
ception. His father stretched out his withered
hand slowly, and said, with difficulty, " Thou art
come at the right time " ; but without adding
whether he spoke of the preachings, or alluded to
their approaching separation. Justa hastily related
how the old man had overworked himself, till body
and spirit had given way together, so that he no
longer took a share in anything, though he longed
to be with the sharers ; and how he lay prostrate,
with broken wings, looking upward, like a helpless
child. The old man had grown so hard of hear-
ing, that she could say all this in his presence.
Gottreich would fain have infused into that old
and once strong heart the fire of victory which was
reflected in his own bosom ; but he heard neither
wish nor question of it. The old man continued
to gaze steadily upon the setting sun, and at last
it was hidden by the storm-clouds. The landscape
grew dark, the winds stood pent, and the earth
THE OLD PASTOR AND HIS SON. 449
was oppressed. Suddenly there came a gush of
rain and a crash of thunder. The lightning flashed
around the old man. He looked up, altered and
astonished. " Hist ! " he said ; " I hear the rain
once more. Speak qtfickly, children, for I shall
soon depart ! ' Both his children clung to him,
but he was too weak to embrace them.
And now warm, refreshing fountains from the
clouds bathed all the sick earth, from the dripping
trees to the blades of grass. The sky glistened
mildly, as with tears of joy, and the thunder went
rumbling away behind the distant mountains.
The sick man pointed upward, and said : " Seest
thou the majesty of God ? My son, now, in my
last hour, strengthen my weary soul with some-
thing holy, — something in the spirit of love, and
not of penance ; for if our hearts condemn us not,
then have we confidence toward God. Say some-
thing to me rich in love of God and of his
works."
The eyes of the son overflowed, to think that
he should read at the death-bed of his father those
Reminiscences which he had prepared for his own.
He said this to him, but the old man answered,
" Hasten, my son ! " And, with faltering voice,
Gottreich beo;an to read : — -
" Remember, in thy dark hour, those times
when thou hast prayed to God in ecstasy, and
when thou hast thought on him, the Infinite One ;
the greatest thought of finite man."
CO
450 THE OLD PASTOR AND HIS SON.
Here the old man clasped his hands, and prayed
low.
" Hast thou not known and felt the existence of
that Being, whose infinity consists not only in his
power, his wisdom, and his eternity, but also in
his love, and in his justice ? Canst thou forget
the time when the blue sky, by day and by night,
opened on thee, as if the mildness of God was
looking down on thee? Hast thou not felt the
love of the Infinite, when he veiled himself in
his image, the loving hearts of men ; as the sun,
which reflects its light not on the moon only, but
on the morning and evening star also, and on
every little twinkler, even the farthest from our
earth ?
" Canst thou forget, in the dark hour, that there
have been mighty men among us, and that thou
art following after them ? Raise thyself, like the
spirits who stood upon their mountains, having the
storms of life only about them, never above them !
Call back to thee the kingly race of sages and
poets, who have inspirited and enlightened nation
after nation ! "
" Speak to me of our Redeemer," said the fa-
ther.
u Remember Jesus Christ, in the dark hour.
Remember him, who also passed through this life.
Remember that soft moon of the Infinite Sun,
given to enlighten the night of the world. Let
life be hallowed to thee, and death also ; for he
THE OLD PASTOR AND HIS SON. 451
shared both of them with thee. May his calm
and lofty form look down on thee in the last dark-
ness, and show thee his Father."
A low roll of thunder was heard from clouds
which the storm had left. Gottreich continued to
read : —
" Remember, in the last hour, how the heart of
man can love. Canst thou forget the love where-
with one heart repays a thousand hearts, and the
soul during a whole life is nourished and vivified
from another soul ? Even as the oak of a hun-
dred years clings fast to the same spot, with its
roots, and derives new strength, and sends forth
new buds during its hundred springs ? "
" Dost thou mean me ? ' said the father.
" I mean my mother also," replied the son.
The father, thinking on his wife, murmured very
gently, " To meet again. To meet again." And
Justa wept while she heard how her lover would
console himself in his last hours with the reminis-
cence of the days of her love.
Gottreich continued to read : " Remember, in
the last hour, that pure being with whom thy life
was beautiful and great ; with whom thou hast
wept tears of joy ; with whom thou hast prayed
to God, and in whom God appeared unto thee ; in
whom thou didst find the first and last heart of
love ; — and then close thine eyes in peace ! '
Suddenly, the clouds were cleft into two huge
black mountains ; and the sun looked forth from
452 THE OLD PASTOR AND HIS SON. '
between them, as it were, out of a valley between
buttresses of rock, gazing upon the earth with
its joy-glistening eye.
"See!" said the dying man. "What a glow!"
" It is the evening sun, father."
" This day we shall see one another again,"
murmured the old man. He was thinking of his
wife, long since dead.
The son was too deeply moved to speak to
his father of the blessedness of meeting again in
this world, which he had enjoyed by anticipation
during his journey. Who could have courage
to speak of the joys of an earthly meeting to one
whose mind was absorbed in the contemplation
of a meeting in heaven ?
Gottreich, suddenly startled, asked, " Father,
what ails thee ? "
" I do think thereon ; and death is beautiful,
and the parting in Christ," murmured the old
man. He tried to take the hand of Gottreich,
which he had not strength to press. He repeated,
more and more distinctly and emphatically, " O
thou blessed God ! ' until all the other luminaries
of life were extinguished, and in his soul there
stood but the one sun, God !
At length he roused himself, and, stretching forth
his arm, said earnestly, " There ! there are three
fair rainbows over the evening sun ! I must go
after the sun, and pass through them with him."
He sank backward, and was gone.
THE OLD PASTOR AND HIS SON. 453
At that moment the sun went down, and a
broad rainbow glimmered in the east.
" He is gone," said Gottreich, in a voice choked
with grief. "But he has gone from us unto his
God, in the midst of great, pious, and unmingled
joy. Then weep no more, Justa."
His youth was innocent ; his riper age
Marked with some act of goodness every day ;
And, watched by eyes that loved him, calm and sage,
Faded his late declining years away.
Cheerful he gave his being up, and went
To share the holy rest that waits a life well spent
That life was happy. Every day he gave
Thanks for the fair existence that was his ;
For a sick fancy made him not her slave,
To mock him with her phantom miseries.
No chronic tortures racked his aged limbs,
For luxury and sloth had nourished none for him.
•
Why weep ye, then, for him, who, having won
The bound of man's appointed years, at last,
Life's blessings all enjoyed, life's labors done,
Serenely to his final rest has passed, —
While the soft memory of his virtues yet
Lingers, like twilight hues when the bright sun is set?
W. C. Bryant.
REST AT EVENING.
By ADELAIDE A. PROCTER.
WHEN the weariness of life is ended,
And the task of our long day is done,
And the props, on which our hearts depended,
All have failed, or broken, one by one ;
Evening and our sorrow's shadow blended,
Telling us that peace has now begun.
How far back will seem the sun's first dawning,
And those early mists so cold and gray !
Half forgotten even the toil of morning,
And the heat and burden of the day.
Flowers that we were tending, and weeds scorning,
All alike, withered and cast away.
Vain will seem the impatient heart, that waited
Toils that gathered but too quickly round ;
And the childish joy, so soon elated
At the path we thought none else had found ;
And the foolish ardor, soon abated
By the storm which cast us to the ground.
REST AT EVENING.
455
Vain those pauses on the road, each seeming
As our final home and resting-place ;
And the leaving them, while tears were streaming
Of eternal sorrow down our face ;
And the hands we held, fond folly dreaming
That no future could their touch efface.
All will then be faded : Night will borrow
Stars of light to crown our perfect rest ;
And the dim vague memory of faint sorrow
Just remain to show us all was best ;
Then melt into a divine to-morrow :
O, how poor a day to be so blest !
Cambridge : Stereotyped and Printed by Welch, Bigelow, & Co.
TVNews
OpenLibrary